THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

RUSSELL  W.   BEMIS 


m 


BOUQUET, 

OR 

SPIRIT 

OF 

ENGLISH   POETRY. 


THIRD    EDITION. 


HENRY   F.   ANNERS. 


CONTENTS. 

Prefatory  Sonnet  ....  9 

The  Only  Daughter   ...  11 

New  Scene  in  William  Tell  14 
Marius  amidst  the  Ruins  of 

Carthage 23 

The  Forsaken  Child       .     .  28 

Ophelia,  a  Dirge  ....  29 

She  recks  not  of  Fortune    .  31 

Scot  and  Scotland      ...  33 

The  Ganges 43 

Maisuna 45 

Rio  Verde 47 

Lament  of  the  Poet  Savage  50 

The  Wandering  Wind    .     .  58 

Lines,  by  C.  Verrale,  Esq.  60 
Lines,  by  the  Author  of  the 

Helitrope 61 


712569 


The  Fallen  Lime  Tree  .     .     63 
Sonnet 65 


Night 

66 

A  Song  of  the  Rose  .     .     . 

69 

Summer 

73 

The  Sun  and  Moon    .     .     . 

75 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Rothsay 

Castle  Steamboat  .     .     . 

78 

And  I  too  in  Arcadia      .     . 

81 

Infancy 

84 

Paris    on  the   Morning-    of 

Louis  XVL's  Execution 

86 

A  Lament  on  the  Death  of 

Mrs.  Campbell       .     .     . 

93 

On  the  Death  of  an  Infant  . 

95 

The  Temptation  in  the  Wil- 

derness      

97 

The  Graves  of  Hindostan    . 

99 

Cottage    Emigrants'  Fare- 

well      

106 

CONTENTS. 

Epicedium 108 

To  Derwent  Water    .     .     .109 

Windermere 110 

To  the  Wild  Fern  .  .  .111 
Oh,  let  us  never  meet  again   114 

Noon 116 

The  Unwilling  Bride  .  .117 
The  Prodigal  Son      ...    120 

With  Christ 121 

The  Drop  and  the  River  .  123 
The  Farewell  of  Colonna  .  130 
Thirteen  Years  Ago  .  .  .135 
The  History  of  a  Life  .  .  138 
Tomb  of  Abelard  andEloisa  139 
The  Euthanasia  ....  140 
The  Lonely  Heart  ...  141 
Our  Own  Fire-side    .     .     .    143 

Stanzas  to ....    145 

Song— Up,  Mary,  Love  .  146 
Be  Heaven  my  Stay       .     .148 


6  CONTENTS. 

Madeira 150 

Love 153 

Song 155 

The  Snow 156 

The  Death  of  Rachel      .     .    157 

Memory 159 

Invocation  to  Dreams     .     .160 

The  Nautilus 163 

The  Little  Shepherdess       .    165 
Festa  of  Madonna  Dei  Fiori   168 
The  Dying  Boy  to  the  Sloe- 
blossom   171 

The  Mother's  Hope  .  .  .  175 
A  Hymn  to  the  Redeemer  .  178 
The  Spirits'  Land  .  .  .  182 
Going  to  Service  ....  184 
The  Prophet  Child  ...  188 
Words  of  Trees  and  Flowers  189 
Come  and  Gone  ....  193 
A  Winter  Sunset ....   200 


CONTENTS.  7 

Lines  by  Mrs.  Fairlie    .     .  901 

Creation  and  Redemption  .  203 
Lord  Surrey  and  the  Fair 

Geraldine 204 

St.  Mawgan   Church    and 

Lanhern  Nunnery     .     .  208 
Etty's  Rover  .....  211 
The  Orphan  Ballad-singers  214 
Caldron  Snout,  Westmore- 
land    216 

Mardale  Head     ....  218 

Ivy  Bridge,  Devonshire    .  219 

The  English  Boy    ...  221 

Nathan's  Kieve  ....  224 
The  Mother's  Lament  over 

her  sleeping  Child    .     .  228 

Lines  to  an  old  Oak  Tree  .  229 
The    Dying.      By    Mary 

Emily  Jackson    .     .     .  232 


8  CONTENTS. 

Alone  in  Crowds  to  wan- 
der on    233 

Dirge  at  Sea 235 

A  Thought  at  Sunset    .    .  236 
Burial  of  William  the  Con- 
queror      237 

The    Blind    Flower-girl's 

Song 240 

The  Changed  One  ...  242 

The  Mother's  Hope     .     .  243 

The  Dying  Soldier  ...  246 

The  Sisters  of  Charity      .  247 

The  Bridal     ....     i  254 


PREFATORY  SONNET. 


Once  more,  my  youthful  friends,  as 
wont,  we  meet 
Around  the  Christmas  hearth.    The 

nut-brown  ale 
Flows  gratefully,  I  wot,  with  song 
and  tale, 
Alternate  blithe  and  sad,  in  mixture 

sweet. 
Once  more  I  leave  my  silent  calm  re- 
treat 
Your  social  circles  courteously  to 

hail  ; 
Bringing  some  gifted  friends,  who 
seldom  fail 
To  grace  our  party :  Pray  give  each  a 

seat. 
We  come,  each  in  his  turn,  to  say  our 
say. 
In  verse  or  prose,  intent  all  hearts 
to  gain  ,- 
Blending  the  arch  and  simple,  grave 
and  gay, 
But   leaning   aye    unto  the  moral 
strain ; 


10  PREFATORY  SONNICT. 

Hopeful,  when  idle  hours  have  passed 
away, 
That  fruit  to  feed  reflection  may  re- 
main. 

The  Editor. 


11 


BOUQUET. 


THE  ONLY  DAUGHTER. 

BY   ISABEL  HILL. 

Here  she  comes,  the  Treasure ! 

Bringing  home  her  flowers ; 
When  did  mother's  pleasure 

E'er  deck  girl  like  ours  ? 
Lest  the  sun  should  stain  her, 
Lest  the  breeze  should  pain  her, 

What  fond  fears  are  shown  ! 
Of  her  beauty  vainer 

Than  ever  of  thine  own. 

Why  that  glance  so  tearful  ? 

Health  is  on  her  cheek. 
Modest,  mental,  cheerful, 

Winning,  kind,  and  meek  i 


12  THE   ONLY  DAUGHTER. 

With  youth's  conscious  graces 
Stealing  to  their  places, 

Where  she  hath  not  guessed 
Though  they  stretch  the  laces 

Of  her  bodiced  breast 

While  all  childhood  lingers 

On  the  brow  above, 
yet  those  airy  fingers 

Tempt  the  lip  of  love  ; 
Though  not  yet  retiring 
From  his  kiss  aspiring, 

'Tis  forgot  ere  past ; 
Ours  alone  desiring  : 

Would  that  this  could  last! 

But  those  steps  so  steady, 

And  those  guarded  eyes, 
Mark  the  teens  already. 

They  excuse  our  sighs ; 
Sure  she'll  ne'er  deceive  us, 
Yet  may  nature  grieve  us, 

Seeing  her  so  fair, 
Knowing  she  must  leave  us, 

After  all  our  care ! 

Kindred  ties  that  bosom 
Fill  with  peace  to-day ; 


THE  ONLY  DAUGHTER.  13 

We  have  reared  the  blossom — 

Who  will  bear  away  ? 
Envy  well  may  move  us, 
Strangers  prized  above  us, 

May  Heaven  bless  her  vow ! 
But — she  cannot  love  us 

Then,  alas  !  as  now. 

Other  wills  obeying, 

Be  they  but  as  kind  ! 
Ne'er  her  trust  betraying, 

We  must  grow  resigned ; 
In  her  honours  priding. 
Selfish  sorrows  hiding — 

Hush  !  she's  here,  she's  here  ! 
Sure  that  kiss  seemed  chiding — 

Now,  what  dared  we  fear  ? 


14 


NEW  SCENE  IN  WILUAM  TELI* 


BY  JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

Inscribed  with  gratitude  to  Miss  Ellen  Tree,  as  tb» 
spirited  "  Emma  "  in  "  William  Tell,"  and  the  pa 
thetic  "Julia "  in  the  " Hunchback." 

ACT  v.— SCENE  L 

Tell's  Cottage. — Melcktal  asleep  up 
on  a  couch,  at  the  head  of  which  Emma, 
is  watching. 

Emma.  (Rising  and  coming  for' 
vxird.)~-l  never  knew  a  weary  nighi 

before ! 
I  have  seen  the  sun  a  dozen  times  go 

down, 
And  still  no  William : — and  the  storm 

was  on, 
Yet  have  I  laid  me  down  in  peace  to 

sleep. 
The  mountain  with  the  lightning  all 

ablaze, 
And  shaking  with  the  thunder.    But 

to-night 


WILLIAM  TELL.  15 

Mine  eyes  refuse  to  close !    The  old 

man  rests : 
Pain  hath  outworn  itself,  and  turned 

to  ease. 
How  deadly  calm 's  the  night  I — What's 

that  ? — I'm  grown 
An  idiot  with  my  fears.    I  do  not  know 
The  avalanche!    Great   power   that 

hurls  it  down, 
Watch  o'er  my  boy,  and  guide  his  little 

steps ! 
What  keeps  him  ?  'tis  but  four  hoius' 

journey  hence : 
He'd  rest :  then  four  hours  back  again. 

What  keeps  him  ? 
Emi  would  sure  be  found  by  him — he 

knows 
The  track,  well  as  he  knows  the  road 

to  Altorf. 
Melch.  Help !  {In  his  steep.) 
Emma.  What 's   the   matter  ?    Only 

the  old  man  dreaming . 
He  thinks  again  they're  pulling  out  his 

eyes. 
I'm  sick  with  terror !  Merciful  powers, 

what 's  this 
That  fills  my  heart  with  horrible  alami, 
And  yet  it  cannot  see  ? 
Melch.  {Wa/iing.)  Where  am  I? 


16  WILLIAM  TELL 

Emma.  Father! 

Melch.   My  daughter,   is    it    thou  I 
thank  heaven  I'm  here. 
Is  it  day  yet  ? 

Emma.  No. 

Melch.  Is't  far  on  the  night  ? 

Emma.  Methinks  about  the  turn  on't 

Melch.  Is  the  boy  come  back  ? 

Emma.  No,  father. 

Melch.  Nor  thy  husband  ? 

Emma.  No. 

Melch.  A  woful  wife  and  mother 
have  I  made  thee  ! 
Would  thou  hadst  never  seen  me. 

Emma.  Father! 

Melch.  Child ! 

Emma.  Methinks  I  hear  a  step ! — ^I 
do ! — {Knocking) — A  knock ! 

Melch.  'Tis  William. 

Emma.  No,  it  is  not  William's  knock. 
{Opens  the  door.) 
I  told  you  so ! — Your  will. 

Enter  Stranger. 

Stran.  Seeing  a  light, 
I  e'en  made  bold  to  knock  to  ask  for 

shelter, . 
For  I  have  missed  my  way. 

Emma.  Whence  come  you,  friend  ? 


WILLIAM  TELL.  17 

Stran.  From  Altorf. 

Emma.    Altorf!    Any    news    from 

thence  ? 
Stran.  Ay  !  news  to  harrow  parents' 

hearts,  and  make 
The  barren  bless  themselves  that  they 

are  childless. 
Emma.  May  heaven  preserve  my 

boy  ! 
Melch.  What  says  the  news  ? 
Stran.  Art  thou  not  Melchta  — he 

whose  eyes  'tis  said 
The  tyrant  has  torn  out  ? 
Melch.  Yes,  friend,  the  same. 
Stran.  Is  this  thy  cottage  ? 
Melch.  No  ;  'tis  William  Tell's. 
Stran.    'Tis    William   Tell's  ?— and 

that 's  his  wife  ? — Good  night. 
Emma.  {Rushmg  between  him  and  the 

door.)  Thou  stirr'st  not  hence  until 

thy  news  be  told. 
Stran.  My  news  ?  In  sooth  'tis  no- 
thing thou  wouldst  heed. 
Emma.  'Tis  something  none  should 

heed  so  well  as  I ! 
Stran.  I  must  be  gone. 
Emma.  Thou  seest  a  tigress,  friend, 
Spoiled  of  her  mate  and  young,  and 

yearning  for  them. 


18  WILLIAM  TELL. 

Don't  thwart  her!    Come,  thy  news 

What  fear'sl  thou,  man  ? 
What  more  has  she  to  dread  who  reads 

thy  looks 
And  knows  the  most  has  come  ?    Thy 
news — Is't  bondage  ? 
Stran.  It  is. 
Emma.    Thank    heaven   it    is    not 

death  I — Of  one,  or  two  ? 
Slran.  Of  two. 
Emma.  A  father  and  a  son, 
Is't  not  ? 
Stran.  It  is. 

Emma.  My  husband  and  my  son 
Are  in  the  tyrant's  power  I     There  's 

worse  than  that — 
What 's  that  is  news  to  harrow  parents' 

breasts, 
The  which,  the  thought  to  only  tell, 

'twould  seem, 
Drives  back  the  blood  to  thine  ?   Thy 

news,  I  say ! 
Wouldst  thou  be  merciful — this  is  not 

mercy. 
Wast  thou  the  mark,  friend,  of  the  bow- 
man's aim, 
Wouldst  thou  not  have  the  fatal  arrow 
speed. 


WILLIAM  TELL.  19 

Rather  than  watch  it  hanging  in  the 

string  ? 
Thou'lt  d  rive  me  mad  !  Let  fly  at  once. 
Melch.  Thy  news  from  Altorf,  friend, 

whate'er  it  is ! 
Stran.  To  save   himself  and  child 
from  certain  death, 
Tell  is  to  hit  an  apple,  to  be  placed 
Upon  the  stripling's  head. 

Melch.  My  child  !  my  child ! — 
Speak  to  me,  stranger,  hast  thou  killed 
her? 
Emma.  No ! 
No,  father,  I'm  the  wife  of  William 

Tell; 
Oh,  but  to  be  a  man  I  to  have  an  arm 
To  fit  a  heart  swelling  with  the  sense 

of  wrong — 
Unnatural — insufferable  wrong ! 
When  makes  the   tyrant  trial  of  his 
skill? 
Slran.  To-morrow. 
Emma.  Spirit  of  the  lake  and  hill. 
Inspire  thy  daughter !  On  the  head  of 

him 
Who  makes  his  pastime  of  a  mother's 

pangs, 
Launch   down  thy  vengeance   by  a 
mother'^  hand. 


aO  WILLIAM  TELL. 

Know'st  the  signal  when  the  hills  shall 
rise?  {To  MelchtaL.) 
Melch.  Are  they  to  rise  ? 
Emma.  I  see  thou  knowest  naught. 
Slran.  Something 's  on  foot.     'Twas 
only  yesterday, 
That,   travelling  from  our  canton,  I 

espied, 
Slow  toiling  up  a  steep,  a  mountaineer 
Of  brawny  limb,  upon  his  back  a  load 
Of  faggots  bound.    Curious  to  see  what 

end 
Was  worthy  of  such  labour,  after  him 
I  took  the  cliffj  and  saw  its  lofty  top 
Receive  his  load,  which  went  but  to 

augment 
A  pile  of  many  another. 
Emma.  'Tis  by  fire  I 
Fire  is  the  signal  for  the  hills  to  rise  I 
{Rushes  out.) 
Melch.  Went  she  not  forth  ? 
Stran.  She  did — she  's  here  again, 
And  brings  with  her  a  lighted  brand. 

Melch.  My  child. 
What  dost  thou  with  a  lighted  brand  ? 
{Re-enter  Emma  withabrand.) 
Emma.  Prepare 
To  give  the  signal  for  the  hills  to  rise. 


WILLIAM  TELL.  21 

Melch.  WTiere  are  the  faggots,  child, 

for  such  a  blaze  ? 
Emma.  I'll  find  the  faggots,  father. 

{Exit.) 
Melch.  She  gone  again  ? 
Stran.    She    is — I    think    into    her 

chamber. 
Emma.    [Rushing  in.)    Father,  the 

pile  is  fired  I 
Melch.  VVliat  pile,  my  child  ? 
Emma.  The  joists  and  rafters  of  our 

cottage,  father. 
Melch.  Thou  hast  not  fired  thy  cot- 
tage— but  thou  hast ! 
Alas!  I  hear  the  crackling  of  the  flames. 
Emma.  Say'st  thou  alas  I  when  I  do 
say,  thank  heaven  ? 
Father,   this   blaze  will  set  the  land 

ablaze 
With  fire  that  shall  preserve,  and  not 

destroy  it. 
Blaze  on !  blaze  on !    Oh,  may'st  thou 

be  a  beacon 
To  light  its  sons,  enslaved,  to  liberty ! 
How  fast  it  spreads  I  A  spirit 's  in  the 

fire! 
It  knows  the  work  it  does. — {Goes  to 
the  door.)— The  land  is  free  ! 


22  MARIUS. 

Vonder  'a  another  blaze ! — Beyond  that 

shoots 
Anotlier  up  ! — Anon  will  every  hill 
Redden    with  vengeance. Father, 

come  !  whate'er 
Betide  us,  worse,  we're  certain,  can't 

befall, 
And  better  may!    Oh,  be  it  liberty — 
Safe  hearths  and  homes,  husbands  and 

children. — Come, 
It  spreads  apace. — Blaze  on !  blaze  on ! 

blaze  on !  ExeuiiL 


23 


MARIUS  AMIDST  THE  RUINS  OF 
CARTHAGE. 

Maiten  of  pusioD  iway  it  to  the  mood 
Of  what  it  likes,  or  lomhet.—Shalispcar. 

I. 

Carthage  !    Where  now  thy  beauty ! 

where,  alas ! 
The  pride  of  pageantry,  thy  pomp ;  and 

where 
Those  mighty  navies  which  had  aw'd 

the  world  ? 
Their  flaunting  sails  are  now  for  ever 

furl'd  ! 
Thy  halls  are  desolate  ;  the  wiry  grass 
And    weeds — the  rankest — choke  thy 

pathways : — there 
Sits  moody  SUence,   pointing  to  the 

skies, 
With   palsied  tongue,   with  fix'd  and 

rayless  eyes, 
Where    by  the    hand  of  everlasting 

fame 
Is  traced,  in  living  light,  immortal  Sci- 

piu's  name. 


24 


II. 

Carthage!  within  thy  walls  the  lizard 

dwells, 
Where  erst  the  cricket  chirp'd  ;  and 

the  foul  cells 
Of  squalid    reptiles    are    discovered, 

where 
The  sleek  mouse  had  her  dwelling. 

The  meek  hare 
Sits    unnffrighted    'mid   thy  shatter'd 

domes, 
Where   heroes  once  had    fix'd   their 

noblest  homes. 
Amid  thy  ruins,  vast  and  desolate, 
INo  human  creature  wanders ;  or  but 

one, 
Alone, — a  stem  and  solitary  man. 
Stern  as  the  blacken'd  rock  he  sits  upon, 
Harsher  his  spirit,  and  as  dark  as  fate, 
There  on  the  fragment  of  a  massy 

stone 
That,  ere  the  fiercely-crackling  flames 

had  riven 
Its  giant  bulk  look'd  up,  and  laugh'd  at 

heav'n, 
Perch'd  like  a  vulture,  ominous  and 

grim, 
The  very  reptiles  all  avoiding  him, 


25 


He  sits,  his  moody  reverie  began, 

Which  stirr'd  his  heart  to  slaughter. — 
There  alone. 

Houseless  he  sits,  upon  that  rocky 
throne, 

His  own  appropriate  emblem  ;  for  the 
flint 

Could  not  more  sternly  brave  the  thun- 
der's dint 

Than  his  hard  heart  compassion's  soft 
appeal. 

Amid  the  scene  his  dizzy  senses  reel 

With  thoughts  too  dire  to  utter. 

III. 

There  he  sits, 
By  whom  the  mighty   Cimbri  were 

chastis'd. 
As  if  his  very  soul  were  paralyz'd, 
And  yet  his  fierce  eye  glares  in  moody 

fits 
O'er  the  surrounding  waste,  as  if  he 

vievv'd 
His  own  state  pirtur'd  in  its  solitude. 
Dark  and  as  still  as  night  he  sits  alone, 
Like  a  doom'd  spirit,  on  that  riven 

stone. 
And  in  his  murkiness  of  mind,  broods 


20  MARILS. 

Heal  or  imagin'd  wrongs,  while  o'er  his 

heart — 
Thro'  wliich  the  hiack  blood  bounds, 

with  fcver'd  start — 
A  thirst  of  vengeance  steals,  and  at  the 

core 
Parches  and   bums   it  up. — lie  looks 

towards  Rome, 
The  city  of  his  pride,  the  warrior's 

home ; — 
How  di  ft 'rent  to  the  ruins  round  him 

lying : 
That  city's  rival  once,  which,  now  no 

more, 
Sends  forth  lier  barks  to  earth's  remo- 
test shore. 
He    looks    towards   Rome  —  imperial 

Kome^-defying 
The  wide  world  round  her.  Rome  !  he 

looks  towards  thee. 
While  his  heart  throbs  with  inward 

agony. 
And  from  his  eye  revenge's  hot  streams 

pour. 

IV. 
Soon  the  bark  bears  hira  o'er  the  waters 

— soon 
Joy,  in  the  flood  of  woe,  shall  quench 

her  beams, 


MARII'P  27 

And  her  faint  voice  be  drown'd  in  the 
shrill  screams 

Of  sanguinary  slaughter.  —  Ere  the 
moon 

Again  shall  fill  her  silver  horns  with 
light. 

The  sun  of  happiness  shall  set  in  night 

Marius  is  nigh  thee,  I^me  !  a  heartless 
son. 

That,  like  the  adder,  loves  to  prey  upon 

The  Ixiwels  of  its  parent. — Ah  I  be- 
ware ! 

The  voice  of  carnage  soon  shall  rend 
the  air — 

Rome  hears  it  now — she  hears,  with 
mad  surprise, 

And  glutted  with  her  blood,  the  ruth- 
less savage  dies. 


28 


THE  FORSAKEN  ClfiLD. 

Lie  down  in  that  low  quiet  bed, 

Thou  weary  care-worn  child  of  clay, 
The  earth's  cold  pillow  props  thy  head, 

Thine  eyes  have  r-losed  on  busy  day; 
No  sounds  thy  deafened  ear  can  reach, 

No  dreams  thy  aching  brain  perjjlex, 
Nor  scornful  eye,  nor  taunting  speech, 

Thy  meek  and  wounded  spirit  vex. 

A  heavy  doom  was  thine  to  bear, 

No  peace  to  hope,  no  rest  to  find, 
With  none  thy  lot  to  sooth  or  share, 

Poor  outcast  of  a  world  unkind  ! 
What  hour  of  thy  brief  tearful  life, 

From  care,  from  bitterness  was  free  ? 
And  now  escaped  the  unequal  strife. 

Blest  sleeper,  shall  we  weep  for  thee? 

Oh !  close  the  turf  above  her  head. 

And  hide  her  from  the  world's  cold 
eyes. 
They  shall  not  now  profane  the  dead, 

Nor  see  how  calm  and  still  she  lie& 
Come  let  us  steal  away,  and  bid 

These  tears  of  selfisa  sorrow  cease. 
And  leave  her  here  in  darkness  hid. 

To  taste  her  new-found  blessing — 
peace 


OPHEUA. 


BY  CHARLES  WHITEHEAD. 

Softly  to  the  earth  restore, 

One  whom  for  an  hour  she  gave  ; 

With  gentle  steps,  as  though  ye  bore 
Virtue's  self  unto  the  grave  ; 

In  this  darkness,  cold  and  deep, 

Lay  her  silently  to  sleep. 

Pilgrims  to  a  vacant  shrine, 
O'er  the  desert  slow  we  toil; 

Busy  workers  in  a  mine, 
Reaping  but  the  barren  soil. 

Care  and  grief  besiege  the  breast, 

Motion  ever — never  rest. 

But  this  fairest  girl  hath  won 

Sleep  that  breeds  no  troubled  dream, 

And  the  earth  we  heap  upon 
Her  virgin  bosom,  ne'er  shall  teem, 

However  bright  belbre  it  fade, 

With  sweeter  flower  than  here  is  laid. 


30 


Water  blind  and  brooding  oozo, 
Which  in  silent  death,  conceive 

Yielded  back  what  now  we  lose, 
In  the  dumb  still  ground  to  leave. 

Never  more  while  time  shall  be, 

Earth,  must  she  be  raised  from  ihoe. 

All  the  pleasure  thou  canst  give, 
All  the  bliss,  thou  tak'st  away  : 

Springs  still  flowing  while  we  live, 
Lie  frozen  in  that  heart  to-day. 

Cold  and  dry  may  be  their  bed, 

Yet  warm  as  sunshine  to  the  dead. 

For  virtue  shall  the  mould  perfume 

With  odours  of  her  sacrifice, 
And  love  shall  shed  his  softest  bloom 

On  the  verdure  where  she  lies — 
And    peace,  the   child   of  hojie    and 

prayer. 
Shall    bend    the   knee,  and   worship 
there. 


31 


SHE  RECKS  NOT  OF  FORTUNE. 

A  SONG. 

She  recks  not  of  fortune,  though  high 
her  degree  ; 

She  says  she  's  contented  with  true 
Ifjve  and  me ; 

And  the  truth  of  her  heart  ray  fond  rap- 
ture descries 

In  the  bloom  of  her  blushes  and  light 
of  her  eyes. 

How  fearful  is  love  to  the  faithful 
and  young  I 

How  trembles  the  heart,  and  how  fal- 
ters the  tongue; 

While  the  soft  rising  sigh,  and  the 
sweet  springing  tear, 

Check  the  haIf-siM)ken  vow  and  the 
glance  too  sincere  I 

Her  hand  to  my  lips  when  at  parting  I 
press, 

And  she  bids  rae  adieu  with  a  timid 
caress, 

She  glides  off  like  a  sun-beam  pursued 
by  a  cloud. 

And  I  kiss  every  Hower  her  dear  foot- 
steps have  bowed. 


32   SHE  RECKS  NOT  OF  FORTUNE. 

As  the  fawn  steals  for  play  from  the 

ptill-feeding  Hock, 
As  darts  the  young  hawk  from  his  hold 

in  the  rock, 
So  peeps  forth  my  Lucy  when  none 

are  aware, 
So  flies  her  fond  lover  her  ramble  to 

share. 

Wo  linger  at  noon  by  the  rocks  and 

the  coves 
Where  the  slow-winding  stream  sleeps 

in  nooks  which  he  loves, — 
When  the  freshness  of  spring  has  been 

mellowed  by  June, 
And  the  paren^bird  warbles  a  tenderer 

tune. 

We  scarce  talk  of  love, — she  is  scared 

at  the  sound  ; 
But  it  breathes  from  the  skies,  and  it 

bursts  from  the  ground  : 
Of  whatever  we  talk,  it  is  love  that 

we  mean — 
On  whatever  we  look,  it  is  love  that  is 

seen. 

J.  F. 


33 


SCOT  AND  SCOTLAND. 

EPISTLE  TO  GEORGE   CATTERMOLE,  ESQ. 

Again,  upon  my  waking  dreara. 
Rise  the  gray  cairn  ami  lonely  stream; 
Lost  voices  to  my  ear  return 
From  many  a  long-forgotten  urn  : 
The  night-wind,  waiUng  sad  and  chill, 
Comes  wihlly  from  the  desert  hill ; 
O'er  the  dim  heath  the  moon-beams 

creep 
To  many  a  tumulary  heap  ; 
And  gliding  thus  from  tomb  to  tomb. 
Wander,  like  corpse-lights,  through  the 

gloom. 

What  forms  are  those,  of  dusty  hue, 
That  keep  this  mystic  rendezvous  ? 
From  the  gray  cairn,  the  ruined  tower. 
The  sullen  stream,  the  antique  bower. 
From  the  poor  hind's  deserted  bield, 
From  yonder  proud  historic  field, 
From  hill,  from  plain,  from  rocky  shore, 
From  wold,  and  darkling  wood,  they 
pour, 

3 


34  SCOT  AND  SCOTLAND. 

From  silent  lake  and  lonely  glen— 
Who  hath  called  up  those  shapes  again  ? 

Not  mine  the  magic  to  compel 
The  past  unto  my  wizard  spell — 
To  me  is  given  a  heart  alone 
Responsive  to  the  master  tone  ; 
I  pay  no  vows  at  nature's  shrine 
Save  through  her  chosen  priests  divine; 
And  thus,  a  lowly  devotee, 
I  bow,  dear  Cattermole,  to  thee. 

Wave  then    thy  mystic    wand,    and 

shower 
Upon  the  page  those  tints  of  power, 
To    summon  from  their    mouldering 

grave 
The  fair,  the  faithful,  and  the  brave. 
Small  though  his  portion  in  thine  art, 
Yet  dull  of  eye,  and  dead  of  heart, 
Thy  comrade  on  this  spot  would  be, 
To  claim  no  fellowsliip  with  thee ! 
Threw  not  that  cold  and  troubled  sky 
Its  shadows  o'er  his  infant  eye  ? 
Climbed  he  not  yonder  mountain's  side 
In  boyhood's  joy,  and  boyhood's  pride? 
Plunged  he  not  in  yon  dusky  main. 
Deep  as  the  wild  duck,  and  again 
Upbounding,  shouted,  shrill  and  brave. 
Defiance  to  the  stormy  wave  ? 


SCOT  AND  SCOTLAND.  35 

Oh,  many  a  weary  league  since  then 
I've  wandered  in  the  haunts  of  men; 
Oh,  many  a  land  liath  spread  for  me 
Her  fairest,  richest  canopy ! 
Oh,    many   a    hand,    in    friendship's 

grasp, 
To  mine  hath  given  clasp  for  clasp ! 
Oh,  many  a  bovver,  oh,  many  a  grove, 
Have  listened  to  my  notes  of  love  ! 
Yet,  exiled  from  my  native  strand, 
Where  have  I  found  a  sweeter  land, 
Or  lovelier  love,  or  truer  hand  ? 
Onward  I  roved  on  foreign  ground, 
But  no  continuing  city  found. 
An  unweaned  child — I  could  not  rest 
For  thinking  of  my  mother's  breast: 
A  stranger  and  a  pilgrim— I 
Could  find  no  other  place  to  die 
But  ever  turned  a  longing  heart 
To  thee  who  wert,  to  thee  who  art, 
In  sun  and  shade,  through  good  and  ill 
Scotland — my  home — ray  country  still 

But  not  alone  th'  instinctive  band 
Which  binds  us  to  our  native  land — 
Not  on  the  wanderer's  heart  alone 
Those  fairy  linivs  of  love  are  thrown ; 
Thought,  taste,  and  fancy  on  the  side 
Of  holy  nature  are  allied. 


36  SCOT  AND  SCOTLAND. 

And  art  hath  taught  me  to  adore 
The  charms  I  only  loved  before. 

Romantic  Clyde !  beloved  stream ! 
Thus  rising  on  my  lonely  dream, 
Thou  seem'st  a  goddess  of  old  song 
To  whom  no  traits  of  earth  belong — 
^  spirit  of  beauty,  whose  bright  eye 
Doth  rule  the  tides  of  poesy  : 
Thy  circling  hills,  and  waving  woods, 
Thy    currents    calm,    and    headlong 

floods, 
The  rich  wmds  o'er  thy  bosom  straying, 
The  music  in  thy  groves  delaying, 
Thy  birds,  and  flowers,  and  whisper- 
ing trees — 
But  exoteric  s^^mbols  these  : 
While  thou,  the  goddess'  self,  apart 
Dwell'st  in  thy  faithful  votary's  heart, 
Each  meaner  feeling  to  refine. 
To  prompt  and  urge  the  headlong  line, 
To  raise,  console,  sustain,  and  shower 
High  influence  on  his  darkest  hour. 

And  smMe  not,  though  so  wild    ray 

dream 
When  that  fair  river  is  the  theme  : 
For  every  spot  its  banks  around 
To  me,  my  friend,  is  haunted  ground. 


SCOT  AND  SCOTLAND.  37 

Time  did  notquench  my  youthful  flame, 
Nor  slow  and  dull  experience  tame  : 
I  saw  not,  drooping,  day  by  day, 
Or  falling,  one  by  one,  away, 
The  fairy  flowers,  the  visions  high 
That  gleamed  before  my  infant  eye. 
I  saw  not,  stripped  of  leaf  and  tree, 
The  paradise  that  bloomed  lor  me, 
Tdl  the  bleak  winds  of  life  at  last 
Ran  moaning  o'er  a  barren  waste. 
Flung  sudden  on  the  ocean  stream, 
While  yet  in  my  lirist  morning  dream, 
I  saw  the  lost,  the  lovely  land. 
Recede,  like  some  enchanted  strand  : 
What  marvel,  then,  if  longing  eye 
I  turned  towards  my  native  sky  ? 
What  marvel  if  a  sod  so  sweet 
Ne'er  blest  the  weary  Ishmael's  feet? 
What  marvel  if  that  mystic  spot 
Seemed  heaven  to  the  wandering  Scot? 

Strange,  how  our  superstitions  twine, 
Each  with  the  next,  until  a  line 
They  weave,  that  llirough  each  varied 

stage 
Runs  on  from  infancy  to  age, 
Linking  the  spring  with  summer  wea- 
ther, 
And  chaining  youth  and  yeara  together. 


38  SCOT  AND  SCOTLAND. 

Thus   did    that   nameless,   shapeless 

dread, 
Which  scared  me  on  ray  cradled  bed, 
(An  embryo  terror,  blank  and  dim,) 
Resolve  into  the  spectre  grim  : 
Then  paled  the  stars,  then  moaned  the 

breeze, 
Then  voices  whispered  in  the  trees. 
And  flitting  lights  the  church-yard  o'er, 
And  shapes  that,  beckoning,  stalked 

before, 
And  shrieks  from  forth  the  tumbling 

flood, 
Curdled  so  cold  my  boyhood's  blood ! 

But  these,  when  boyhood's  courage 

grew. 
As  if  at  cock-crow,  sudden  flew, 
And  in  their  stead  a  mystic  band 
Rise  gloomy  in  the  troubled  land  ; 
O'er  the  new  scene  of  fear  preside 
The  hags  that  on  the  tempest  ride ; 
And  wizards  fling  their  potent  spell 
Over  the  world  invisible. 
Yet  soon  begins  the  sky  to  clear, 
As  waxeth  last  the  human  year; 
To  broomstick,  witch,  and  warlock 

%. 
Their  latest '  whirs '  in  distance  die ; 


SCOT  AND  SCOTLAND.  39 

Sinks  in  the  ground  th'  unhallowed  fire, 
And  with  a  hiss  the  flames  expire. 

Then  smiles  the  scorched  earth  anew, 
Then  falls  again  the  balmy  dew, 
Then    flowers   exhale     their    od'rous 

breath 
Where   rose  the  noisome  steams  of 

death, 
And  fountains  run  their  margins  o'er 
Where    tlie   hell-cauldron  hissed    be- 
fore. 
No  incantation,  deep  and  strong, 
The  echoes  of  the  Clyde  prolong; 
But  fairy  harps,  from  bower  and  grove, 
Awake  the  dulcet  notes  of  love. 
While  fairy  feet  in  mirthful  dance, 
Among    the    glancing    moon-beams 

glance ; 
And  fairy  voices,  swelling  high. 
Bear  burden  to  the  minstrelsy. 

Not  quite  of  fear  my  tremor  tells. 
Nor  quite  in  faith  my  bosom  swells, 
When   'neath  my   wondering  glance 

there  grow 
The  glories  of  that  spectral  show: 
O'er  my  half  wakened  heart  I  feel 
A  strange  unwanted  softness  steal ; 


40  SCOT  AND  SCOTLAND. 

My  bosom  heaves  with  aimless  sighs, 
And  tears  bedew  my  half-shut  eyes. 
Not  all  a  dream !  not  all  a  dream  ! 
Mingling    with    that   small   beauty's 

beam, 
I  see,  and  with  a  blush  confess. 
The  traits  of  mortal  loveliness: 
Almost  as  bright,  and  tiny  too. 
Some  lassie,  with  her  eyes  of  blue, 
Hath  thus  usurped,  in  iace  and  mien, 
The  graces  of  the  elfin  queen  ! 
O,  fair  delusion!  loved  deceit! 
Dear  hast  thou  cost  me,  poisoned  sweet  J 
With  fiction  still  worse  fiction  blending, 
In  dreams  begun,  in  falsehood  ending 

But  hark !  a  blast  of  battle-horn. 
On  Kempuck's  midnight  breezes  borne 
Comes  sudden  down  thy  lone  hill  side, 
And  wakes  the  echoes  of  the  Clyde, 
Which,  starting  at  the  hostile  strain. 
Answer  that  challenge  back  again ; 
Not  long  my  ear  the  sound  retains. 
Nor  long  the  shadowy  joust  remains 
To  glad  or  grieve  my  boyish  eye 
With  deeds  of  Elfin  chivalry. 
With  sterner  shades  the  air  is  thick — 
Boils  my  young  blood,  my  breath  cornea 
quick ;  • 


SCOT  AND  SCOTLAND.  41 

1  see  from  many  a  hoary  tomb 
My  country's  ancient  heroes  come  ; 
From  old  historic  fields  afar, 
The  stately  march  of  Scotland's  war 
Echoing  o'er  hill  and  moreland  gray, 
All  feebler  visions  scares  away. 

And  thus,  dear  comrade,  did  my  mind 
Its  nurture,  or  its  poison,  find  : 
And  thus,  the  flowery  mazes  past, 
Did  fiction  lead  to  truth  at  last, 
And  fancy  her  wild  garlands  tie 
O'er  the  stern  brows  of  history. 

Ask  not  of  me  the  glance  severe, 
The  learned  frown,  the  caustic  sneer. 
When  turning  to  my  native  land 
'  From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand.' 
Like  him,   whose   lore,  from   passion 

gained, 
Taught  that  the  world  two  parts  con- 
tained, 
(Unknown  the  others,  or  forgot.) 
'  Where  is  my  love,  and  where  is  not — 
Two  eras,  even  so,  combine 
To  form  this  luckless  life  of  mine  : 
One  is  the  age  of  high  romance, 
Of  haughty  heart  and  daring  glance ; 


42  SCOT  AXD  SCOTLAND. 

Of  generous  purpose,  bold  empnse, 
And   golden   dreams,    and   cloudless 

skies. 
The  other ! — but  depict  for  me 
The  age  of  dread  reality, 
Oh,  ye  mute  witnesses — the  eye 
Tearless  and   cold, — the   xuiconscioiis 

sigh, 
The  scornful  lip,  the  sinking  heart. 
The  sleepless  night,  the  frequent  start, 
The  dark'ning  frown,  the  smile  un- 
couth, 
The  gray  hairs  on  the  brow  of  youth! 

But,  linked  with  all  of  good  and  bright, 
These  shores  now  bless  the  wanderer's 

sight; 
Who,  turning  from  the  darkened  main, 
Greets  his  lost  paradise  again. 
Leave  then  to  others,  gifted  mate, 
The  task  of  satire,  envy,  hate  ; 
And    wave    thy    mystic    wand,    and 

shower 
Upon  the  page  those  tints  of  power, 
To  summon  from    their   mouldering 

grave 
The  fair,  the  faithful,  and  the  brave. 


43 


THE  GANGES. 


"  On  ♦he  morning  we  floated  again  upon  the  broad 
bosom  of  the  Ganges,  which  was  hourly  widening  as 
we  approached  Calcutta. — As  I  now  call  to  my  recol- 
lection the  beauties  of  that  magnificent  river,  I  shall 
indulge  myself,  and,  I  trust,  gratify  the  reader,  by 
giving  a  poetical  description  of  it  from  the  pen  of  one 
of  its  own  native  bards." — Oriental  Annual. 


Gold  river !  gold  river !  how  gallantly 

now 
Our  bark  on  thy  bright  breast  is  lifting 

her  prow ! 
In  the  pride  of  her  beauty  how  swiftly 

she  flies, 
Like  a  white  winged  spirit  through 

topaz-paved  skies. 

Gold  river!  gold  river!  thy  bosom  is 
calm, 

And  o'er  thee  the  breezes  are  shedding 
their  bairn ; 

And  nature  beholds  her  fair  features 
portrayed, 

fn  the  glass  of  thy  bosom  serenely  dis- 
played. 


44  THE  GANGES. 

Gold  river !  gold  river !  the  sun  to  thy 

vi'aves 
Is  fleeting  to  rest  in  thy  cool  coral 

caves ; 
And  thence,  with  his  tiar  of  light,  in 

the  morn, 
He  will  rise,  and  the  skies  with  his 

glory  adorn. 

Gold  river  I  gold  river !  how  bright  is 

the  beam 
That  lightens  and  crimsons  thy  soft 

flowing  stream! 
Whose  waters  beneath  make  a  musical 

clashing, 
Whose  waves,  as  they  burst,  in  their 

brightness  are  flashing. 

Gold  river !  gold  river !  the  moon  will 
soon  grace 

The  hall  of  the  stars  with  her  light- 
shedding  face  ; 

The  wandering  planets  will  over  thee 
throng, 

And  seraphs  will  waken  their  music 
and  song. 

Gold  river!  gold  river!  our  brief 
course  is  done, 


45 


And,  safe  in  the  city,  our  liome  we 

have  won : 
And  as  to  the  bright  sun,  now  dropped 

from  our  view. 
So,  Ganga,  we  bid  thee  a  cheerful 


adieu. 


Kasiprasad  Ghosh. 


MAISUNA. 

MaUuna  was  the  daughter  of  the  tribe  of  Calab, 
remarkable  for  the  number  of  poets  it  had  produced. 
She  was  married,  whilst  very  youn;,  to  the  Khaliph 
Mowiah.  But  this  exalted  station  by  no  means  suited 
the  disposition  of  Maisuna  ;  and  amidst  all  the  pomp 
and  splendour  of  Damascus,  she  languished  for  the 
simple  pleasures  of  her  native  deierU— Landscape 
Annual. 

The  russet  suit  of  camel's  hair, 
With  spirits  light  and  eye  serene. 

Is  dearer  to  my  bosom,  far, 

Than  all  the  trappings  of  a  queen. 

The    humble    tent    and    murmuring 
breeze, 
That  whistles  through  its  fluttering 
walls, 


46  MAISUNA. 

My  unaspiring  fancy  please, 
Better  than  towers  and  splendid  halls. 

Th'  attendant  colts  that,  bounding,  fly, 
And  frolic  by  the  litter's  side. 

Are  dearer,  in  Maisuna's  eye. 
Than  gorgeous  mules  in  all  their 
pride. 

The    watch-dog's   voice,    that   bays 
whene'er 
A  stranger  seeks  his  master's  cot, 
Sounds  sweeter  in  Maisuna's  ear 
Than  yonder  trumpet's  long  drawn 
note. 

The  rustic  youth,  unspoilt  by  art, 
Son  of  my  kindred,  poor,  but  free, 

Will  ever  to  Maisuna's  heart 
Be  dearer,  pampered  king,  than  thee. 


47 


RIO  VERDE. 


Associated  with  the  scenery  of  the  Rio  VerJe,  is 
the  exquisite  ballad,  so  admirably  adapted  by  the 
Bishop  of  Dromore,  applying  to  the  famous  Alonzo 
d'Aguilarand  his  brave  companions,  in  the  vicinity 
of  these  lonely  banks,  ever  bright  and  blooming, 
watered  by  the  fresh,  green-gemmed  river. — iMnd" 
scape  Annual. 


Gentlk  river!  gentle  river! 

Lo,  thy  streams  are  stained  with  gore; 
Many  a  brave  and  noble  captain 

Floats  along  thy  willowed  shore. 

All  beside  thy  limpid  waters, 
All  beside  thy  sands  so  bright, 

Moorish  chiefs  and  Christian  warriors 
Joined  in  fierce  and  mortal  fight. 

Lords,  and  dukes,  and  noble  princes 
On  thy  fatal  banks  were  slain ; 

Fatal  banksH  that  gave  to  slaughter 
All  the  pride  and  flower  of  Spain. 

There  the  hero,  brave  Alonzo, 
Full  of  wounds  and  glor>',  died : 


48  RIO  VERDE. 

There  the  fearless  Urdiales 
Fell  a  victim  by  his  side. 

Lo,  where  yonder  Don  Saavedra 
Through  their  squadrons  slow  re- 
tires : 

Proud  Seville,  his  native  city, 
Proud  Seville  his  worth  admires. 

Close  behind  a  renegado 

Loudly  shouts,  with  taunting  cry, 
"  Yield  thee,  yield  thee,  Don  Saavedra  ' 

Dost  thou  from  the  battle  fly  ? 

"  Well  I  know  thee,  haughty  Christian, 
Long  I  lived  beneath  thy  roof; 

Oft  I've  in  the  lists  of  glory 
Seen  thee  win  the  prize  of  proof. 

"  Well  I  know  thy  aged  parents, 
Well  thy  blooming  bride  I  know ; 

Seven  years  I  was  thy  captive, 
Seven  years  of  pain  and  woe. 

"  May  our  Prophet  grant  my  wishes, 
Haughty  chief,  thou  shalt  be  mine  ,• 

Thou  shalt  drink  that  cup  of  sorrow 
Which  I  drank  when  I  was  thine." 


RIO  VERDE.  49 

Like  a  lion  turns  the  warrior, 
Back  he  sends  an  angry  glare ; 

Whizzing  came  tlie  Moorish  javelin. 
Vainly  whizzing  through  the  air. 

Back  the  hero,  full  of  fury. 

Sends  a  deep  and  mortal  wound  ; 

Instant  sunk  tlie  renegado. 

Mute  and  lifeless,  on  the  ground. 

With  a  thousand  Moors  surrounded. 
Brave  Saavedra  stands  at  bay  ; 

Wearied  out,  but  never  daunted, 
Cold,  at  length,  the  warrior  lay. 

Near  him,  fighting,  great  Alonzo 
Stout  resists  the  Paynim  bands  ; 

From  his  slaughtered  steed  dismounted. 
Firm  intrenched  behind  him  stands. 

Furious  press  the  hostile  squadron, 
Furious  he  repels  their  rage  ; 

Loss  of  blood  at  length  enfeebles — 
Who  can  war  with  thousands  wage  ? 

Where  yon  rock  the  plain  o'ershadows, 
Close  beneath  its  foot  retired, 

Fainting  sunk  the  bleeding  hero, 
And  without  a  groan  expired ! 
4 


50 

LAMENT  OF  THE  POET 
SAVAGE. 

BY  MRS.  NORTON. 

.  '^vage  vras  so  touched  by  the  discovery  of  his 
real  mother,  that  it  n-as  his  frequent  practice  to  walk 
in  the  dark  evenings  for  several  hours  before  her 
door,  in  hopes  of  seeing  her  as  she  might  come  by 
accident  to  the  window,  or  cross  her  apartment  with 
a  candle  in  her  hand."— >/b/»rwon'«  Livet  of  the  Poets. 

Have  ye  looked  out  across  the  wide 
green  sea, 
With  ail  its  mountain  billows  raging 
round  ; 
And  gazing  on  it,  gathered  bitterly 
Unto  yourselves  the  memory  of  tho 

drowned  ? 
While  others,  gazing  with  you,  in 
that  sound 
Heard  notliing  but  the  ocean's  cease- 
less roar : — 
Have  ye  in  every  wave  beheld  a 
mound 
O'er  one  who  hath  no  grave ;  whence 

float  to  shore 
Fond,  fancied  words  from  him  whose 
lips  shall  breathe  no  more  ? 


poet's  lament.  si 

So,  oer  my  gaze,  across  the  world's 
wide  sea, 
Sad  memory  still  her  veil  of  dark 
ness  flings, 
Dims  with  her  clouds  my  soul's  fuL 
ecstasy, 
And  drieth  up  joy's  gushing  natural 

springs. 
So,   though    to   others  Time    some 
comfort  hrings, 
For  me  it  hath  no  voice, — no  soothing 
balm ; 
Still   wearily  my  spirit    droops    its 
wings. 
Shrinks    sickening    from  the   crowd- 
awarded  palm, 
And   yearns   for  one    wrecked    hope 
which  hath  destroyed  its  calm. 

Oh,  to  forget  it!   but  for  one  bright 

day — 

An  hour — a  happy  moment  I  oh !  to 

sleep 

And  dream  not  of  it :  to  arise  and  say, 

Lo,  here  is  morning  I  and  to  feel  no 

deep 
And  sickening  consciousness  of  cause 
to  weep. 
Weigh  down  the  waking  soul :  to  smile 
nor  fear 


52  poet's  lament. 

The  shades  that  round  my  couch 

their  vigil  keep, 
Will  haunt  e'en  then,  and  murmur  in 

mine  ear, 
How  canst  thou  smile,  when  we,  the 

doubly  lost,  are  near. 

Blow,  ye  wild  breezes,  o'er  my  native 
hills  : 
Bend,  ye  wild  flowers,  beneath  their 
gladsome  breath  : 
Gush  on  in  beauty,  founts  whose  mu- 
sic fills 
The  voiceless  air, — the  taint  of  sin 

and  death, 
Th'  eternal  curse  that  all  must  bow 
benearth, 
Rests  not  on  you !  Forth  on  its  endless 
quest 
It   sweeps    o'er   sunny    bank    and 
desolate  heath, 
To  find  a  home  within   the  human 

breast, 
A   feared,  and  loathed,  and  scorned, 
but  never  banished  guest. 

The  beautiful  things  of  earth!  how  I 
have  loved 
To  feel  my  spirit  in  its  silent  trance 


poet's  lament.  53 

When  lone,  but  free,  my  eager  foot- 
steps roved : 
With  each  new  charm  that  met  my 

wandering  glance : 
The  sky — the  trees — the  flowers — all 
things  which  chance 
Or  my  own  seeiiing  brought :  but  that 
is  past. 
Never,  oh  I  never  more  my  heart 
shall  dance, 
Sending  its  crimson  torrent,  warm  and 

fast, 
To  veins  whose   rushing   tide    flows 
cold  and  slow  at  last. 

Deserted,  scorned,  abjured,  ere  yet  1 
knew 
What  such  desertion  was — my  form, 
my  name, 
My  very  being  known  but  to  a  few. 
And  by  those  few  remembered  with 

deep  shnme, 
As  an  eternal  blot  upwn  the  fame 
Of  those  who,  fearing  not  to  sin,  did  yet 
Fear  the    upbraiding    eyes    whose 
scorn  could  tame 
Proud    hearts,  that  quailed  at  every 

glance  they  met. 
And  having  loved  in  sin,  could  nature's 
love  forget. 


64  poet's  lament. 

Thus  rose  life's  faint  and  clouded  light 
to  me; 
And  yet  I  had  a  heart,  whose  fer 
vent  love, 
Whose  power  to  suffer  all  things  pa- 
tiently— 
Whose  boundless  hope  that  still  for 

mastery  strove, 
In  value  might  have  proved  itself 
above 
The  sacrifice  affection  made  to  fear. 
But  never  may  that  heart  its  fond- 
ness prove  : 
Mine  is  the  bitter  disregarded  tear, 
The  blight  which  wastes  the  soul  from 
weary  year  to  year. 

Mother  unknown,  but   not  the    less 
adored, 
How  hath  my  soul  gone  forth  in 
search  of  thine ! 
How  hath  my  wild  and  eager  spirit 
poured, 
In  its  lone  watchings  on  the  face  di- 
vine 
Of  heaven's  blue  midnight,  prayers 
that  might  incline 
The  powers  above  to  hush  this  pas- 
sionate storm 


poet's  lament.  55 

Of  ruined  hopes,  and  bid  me  cease 
to  pine 

With  feverish  longing  for  thy  fancied 
form, 

♦fuelling  within  my  heart  its  never- 
dying  worm. 

What  wild,  far  thoughts — what  unre- 
corded dreams 
Df  thy  bright  beauty— of  thy  gushing 
tears — 
When,  in  forsaking  me,  some  dying 
gleams 
Of  tenderness — some   faint  half-bu- 
ried fears 
Of  what  might  be  ray  fate  in  after 
years, 
Awoke  within  thy  soul,  and  bade  thee 
weep. 
Shrouding  the  pained    and  heavy 
eyes  which  gazed 
On  thy  deserted  infant's  quiet  sleep — 
Across  my  lonely  heart  have  learnt  at 
times  to  sweep  I 

How  have  I  prayed  to  Him,  the  Holy 
One, 
Who  still  hath  guarded  thy  forsaken 
child. 


66  poet's  lament. 

To  lead  my  steps  where  thine  before 
had  gone, 
And  let  me  feed  my  soul  with  visions 

wild, 
Of  how  thine  eyes  had  looked— thy 
lips  had  smiled  : 
To  leave  me  even  renounced — abjured 
by  thee. 
Beneath  th'  illumined  lattice,  where, 
beguiled 
By  present  thoughts  and  feelings,  si- 
lently 
Thou  dwellest  now,  without  one  wai- 
dering  thought  of  me. 

That  I  might  see  thy  shadow  in  that 
room 
Glide  to  and  fro  upon  the  marble 
wall, 
And  from  my  station  in  night's  circlinj 
gloom. 
Watch  thee,  and  dream  I  heard  thy 

footsteps  fall 
Lightly  in  that  (to  me)    forbidden 
hall: 
Conjure  thy  low  sweet  voice Hby  fancy's 
art. 
Shed  wild  and  burning  tears  unseen 
by  all 


poet's  lament.  57 

Whose  chilling  gaze  forbid  those  drops 

to  start, 
And  feel  a  strange  joy  swell  within 

my  rapturous  heart. 

Oh,  mother!  youth  is  vanished  from 
thy  life. 
The  rose  of  beauty  faded  from  thy 
cheek ; 
Little  to  thee  this  world  of  guilt  and 
strife, 
Thy  fame — men's    scorn— are  sha- 
dows faint  and  weak : 
And  yet  thou  wilt  not  let  me  hear 
thee  speak 
Words  frozen  back  by  woman's  strug- 
gling pride  : 
Thou  wilt  not  let  me  in  thy  bosom 
seek 
The   rest    for  which  my  heart  hath 

vainly  sighed  ; 
This — this  was  all  I  asked — and  this 
thou  hast  denied ! 

TiOne  hath  my  life  been :  lone,  and 
very  sad  : 
And  wasted  is  the  form  thou  wouldst 
not  know : 


58  THE  WANDERING  WIND. 

And  some  have  cursed,  and  some  have 
deemed  me  mad, 
And  sorrow  hath  drawn  lines  upon 

my  brow. 
Ah!  who  would  cheer  me  half  so 
well  as  thou  ? 
Who    could    so    soothe    my  feverish 
dreams  of  pain  ? 
Yet  never  for  my  sake  thy  tears  shall 
flow. 
Unheard,  unheeded,  still  must  I  com- 
plain, 
And  to  the  hollow  winds  pour  forth  my 
woe  in  vain. 


THE  WANDERING  WIND. 

BY  MRS.  HEMANS. 

The  wind,  the  wandering  wind 
Of  golden  summer  eves ! 

Whence  is  the  thrilling  magic 
Of  its  tones  among  the  leaves  ? 


THE  WANDERING  WIND.  59 

Oh,  is  it  from  the  waters, 
Or  from  the  long,  tall  grass  ? 

Or  is  it  from  the  hollow  rocks, 
Through  which  its  breathings  pass  ? 

Or  is  it  from  the  voices 

Of  all  m  one  combined, 
That  it  wins  the  tone  of  mastery  ? 

The  wind,  the  wandering  wind ! 

No,  no !  the  strange  sweet  accents 

That  with  it  come  and  go, 
They  are  not  from  the  osiers. 

Or  the  fir-trees,  whispering  low. 

They  are  not  of  the  river. 

Nor  of  the  cavemed  hill : 
'Tis  the  human  love  within  us 

That  gives  them  power  to  thrill. 

They  touch  the  links  of  memory 

Around  our  spirits  twined, 
And  we  start  and  weep  and  tremble, 

To  the  wind,  the  wandering  wind  ! 


LINES, 

BY  CHARLES  VERRALE,  ESQ. 

The  setting  sun !  the  setting  sun !  how 

gorgeous  in  the  west, 
O'er   canopied    in    golden    clouds,  it 

proudly  sinks  to  rest. 
A  blaze  of  fleeting  glory  gilds  the  sky, 

the  land,  the  sea  : 
How  lovely,  yet  how  full  of  sad  and 

solemn  thought  to  me  ! 

It  speaks  of  cheerful  daylight  past,  of 

darkness  hastening  on ; 
It  brings  to  mind  the  gladsome  hours 

that  now,  alas,  are  gone  ! 
It  tells  of  youth  departing  fast,  of  health 

how  soon  decayed ; 
Of   hopes    that    blossomed    like    the 

flowers — that   blossomed    but   to 

fade! 

It  tells  of  mirth  to  sadness  changed,  of 

pleasure  turned  to  pain, 
Of  joy  that  glittered  in  our  path,  that 

now  we  seek  in  vain. 


61 


It  tetis  of  beaming  happiness  in  moody 

murmuring  lost, 
Of  fervent  friendship  waxing  cold,  of 

fond  affection  crost ! 

It  tells  of  love,  triumphant  love,  that 
makes  the  heart  his  throne, 

Then  leaves  his  victim  desolate,  de- 
serted, and  alone. 

It  tells  of  those  vve  dearly  prized,  whose 
less  we  now  deplore  ; 

It  tells  that  we  ourselves  shall  set,  and 
weep  our  friends  no  more. 


LINES, 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  HELITROPE. 

E  cos!  la  Belta 

Bapidissimamente,  oh  Dio  !  Sen  va.— Zemwi*. 

The  rose  upon  her  cheek  was  red  ; 

And  on  its  faithless  tint  relying, 
Though  languor  came  and  vigour  fled. 

We  little  dreamt  that  she  was  dying 


&S  LINKS. 

We  bore  her  to  the  Tuscan  shore, 
Where  Arno  rolls — a  stream  of  glad- 
ness : 

But  Alps  and  Ocean  traversed  o'er 
Still  added  sorrow  to  our  sadness. 

yet  long,  unblanched,  upon  her  cheek 
The  rose  of  England  loved  to  linger  ; 

But  well  the  hectic's  glowing  streak 
Told  where  decay  had  set  her  finger. 

Devoted  beauty  !  days  went  by — 
Sad  days!   that    but  matured   the 
canker, 

Yet  found  her  still  with  cloudless  eye, 
Like  Hope,  reposmg  on  her  anchor ! 

So  when  autumnal  suns  arise, 

And  nature's  radiant  form  is  lightest, 

The  leaf  is  clothed  in  richest  guise. 
And   withers    while    the    tint    is 
brightest. 


63 

THE  FALLEN  LIME  TREE. 

BY  MRS.  HEMANS. 

Oh,  joy  of  the   peasant!  oh,  stately 

lime  I 
Thou  art  fallen  in  thy  golden  honey 
time  ; 
Thou  whose  wavy  shadows, 

Long  and  long  ago, 
Screened  our  grey  forefathers 
From  the  noontide's  glow  ; 
Thou,  beneath  whose  branches, 

Touched  with  moonlight  gleams, 
Lay  our  early  p^jels 

Wrapt  in  Jairy  dreams — 
Oh,  tree  of  our  fathers  I  oh,  hallowed 

tree ! 
A  glory  is  gone  from  our  home  with 
thee. 

Where  shall  now  the  weary 
Rest  through  summer  eves? 

Or  the  bee  find  honey, 
As  on  ihv  sweet  leaves. 

Where  shall  now  the  rmgdove 
Build  again  her  nest — 


64  FALLEN  LIME  TREE. 

She,  SO  long  the  inmate 
Of  thy  fragrant  breast  ? 
But  the  sons  of  the  peasant  have  lost 

in  thee 
Far  more  than  the  ringdove,  far  more 
than  the  bee. 

These  may  yet  find  coverts, 

Leafy  and  profound, 
Full  of  dewy  dimness, 

Odour,  and  soft  sound : 
But  the  gentle  memories 

Clinging  all  to  thee, 
When  shall  they  be  gathered 
Round  another  tree  ? 
Oh,  pride  of  our  fathers  !  oh,  hallowed 

tree! 
The  crown  of  the  hamlet  is  fallen  in 
thee 


65 
SONNET. 

BY  R.  F.  HOUSEMAN. 

Oh  !  there  is  music  in  my  heart  to-night, 
Sweeter  than  lapsing  river-waters 

when 
They  weave  their  circHng  spells  in 
secret  glen, 
Darkling  and  peaceful : — Silently,  the 

light 
Of  a  dead   happiness   goes  gleaming 
bright 
Before  my  eyes — how  beautifui !  and 

now, 
The   dream-touched  radiance  of  a 
stainless  brow. 
Shines  out  amid  the  dimness,  pale  and 

white  ! 
Most  gentle  vision ! — Thou  art  she  with 
whom 
Erewhile   I   jilucked    from  youth's 
full-foliafred  tree 
Hope's  perishing  buds,  and  love's  deli 
cious  bloom  I 

5 


Wherefore  thus  brought,  in  wakeful 

fantasy, 
To  mock  the  spirit's  loneliness?— 
Ah,  me, 
What  spell  hath  triumphed  o'er  the 
envious  tomb  ? 


NIGHT. 

BY  MRS.  NORTON. 

Night  sinks  upon  the  dim  grey  wave. 

Night  clouds  the  spires  that  mark 
the  town  : 
On  living  rest  and  grassy  grave. 

The  shadowy  night  comes  slowly 
down. 
And  now  the  good  and  happy  rest, 

The  wearied  peasant  calmly  sleeps, 
And  closer  to  its  mother's  breast 

The  rosy  child  in  slumber  creeps. 

But  I ! — The  sentry,  musing  lone — 
The  sailor,  on  the  cold  grey  sea. 

So  sad  a  watch  hath  never  known, 
As  that  which  must  be  kept  by  me. 


67 


r  cannot  rest,  thou  solemn  night ! 

Thy  very  silence  hath  the  power 
To  conjure  sounds  and  visions  bright. 

Unseen,  unheard,  in  daylight's  hour. 

Kind  words,  whose  echo  will  not  stay, 

Memory  of  deep  and  bitter  wrongs, 
Laughter,  whose  sound  hath  t!ied  away, 

And  snatches  of  forgotten  songs; 
These  haunt  my  soul ;  and  as  I  gaze 

Up  to  the  calm  and  quiet  moon, 
I  dream  'tis  morning's  breeze  that  plays, 

Or  sunset  hour,  or  sultry  noon. 

I  hear  again  the  voice  whose  tone 

Is  more  to  me  than  music's  sound  ; 
And  youthful  forms  for  ever  gone 

Come,   in   their    beauty,    crowding 
round. 
I  start — the  mocking  dreams  depart. 

Thy  loved  words  melt  upon  the  air, 
And  whether  swells  or  sinks  my  heart, 

Thou  dost  not  know — thou  dost  not 


Perchance  while  thus  I  watch  unseen, 
Thy  languid  eyelids  slowly  close. 

Without  a  thought  of  what  hath  been, 
To  haunt  thee  in  thy  deep  repose. 


Oh,  weary  night — oh,  endless  night. 
Blank  pause  between  two  feverish 
days, 
Roll  back  your  shadows,  give  me  light, 
Give    me    the    sunshine's    fiercest 
blaze  I 

Give  me  the  glorious  noon  !  alas ! 

What  recks  it  by  what  light  I  pray, 
Since  hopeless  hours  must  dawn  and 
pass. 

And  sleepless  night  succeed  to  day  ? 
Yet,  cold  and  blue  and  quiet  sky, 

There  is  a  night  where  all  find  rest 
A  long,  long  night. — With  those  who 
die, 

Sorrow  hath  ceased  to  be  a  guest ! 


A  SONG  OF  THE  ROSE. 

BY  MRS.  HE3IANS. 

Hast  thou  no  fears  ?  oh  thou  exulting 
thinjr, 

Thus  looking  forth  on  life  I  Is  there  no 
spell 

In  the  strong  wind  to  tame  thee  ?  Thou 
hast  yet 

To  learn  harsh  lessons  from  the  change- 
ful hours, 

And  bow  thy  stately  head  submissively 

Unto  a  heavy  touch :  for  here,  bright 
shape ! 

Thy  resting  place  is  not. 

Rose,  what  dost  thou  here  ? 

Bridal,  royal  Rose ! 
How,  midst  grief  and  fear, 
Canst  thou  thus  disclose 
That  fervid  hue  of  love  which  to  thy 
heart-leaf  glows  ? 

Rose,  too  much  arrayed 
For  triumphal  hours, 


70  SONG  OF  THE  ROSE. 

Look'st  thou  through  the  shade 
Of  these  mortal  bowers, 
Not  to  disturb  my  soul  ?  thou  crowned 
one  of  all  flowers. 

As  an  eagle  soaring 

Through  a  sunny  sky, 
As  a  clarion  pouring 
Strains  of  victory, 
So    dost    thou    kindle    thoughts,  for 
earthly  doom  too  high. 

Thoughts  of  rapture,  flushing 

Youthful  poet's  cheek ; 
Thoughts  of  glory,  rushing 
Forth  in  song  to  break. 
But  finding  the  spring-tide  of  rapid 
song  too  weak. 

yet,  oh  festal  Rose, 

I  have  seen  thee  lying 
In  thy  bright  repose. 

Pillowed  with  the  dying. 
Thy  crimson  by  the  lip  whence  life's 
quick  blood  was  flying. 

Summer,  Life,  and  Love, 
O'er  that  bed  of  pain, 


SONG  OF  THE  ROSE.  71 

Met  in  thee,  yet  wove 
Too,  too  frail  a  chain 
In   its  embracing  links  the  lovely  to 
detain. 

Smil'st  thon,  gorgeous  flower 

Oh!  within  the  spells 
Of  ihy  beauty's  power, 
Something  dimly  dwells 
At  variance  with  a  world  of  sorrows 
and  farewells  I 

All  the  soul,  forth  flowing 
With  that  rich  perfume, 
All  the  proud  life,  glowing 
In  that  radiant  bloom, 
Have  they  no  place  but  here,  beneath 
th'  o'ershadowing  tomb  ? 

Crown'st  thou  but  the  daughters 

Of  our  tearful  race  ? 
Heaven's  own  purest  waters 
Well  might  wear  the  trace 
Of  thy  consummate  form,  melting  to 
softer  grace  ? 

Will  that  clime  enfold  thee 
With  immortal  air  ? 


72 


Shall  we  not  behold  thee, 
Bright  and  deathless,  there, 
In  spirit-lustre  clothed,  transcendantly 
more  fair  ? 

Yes,  my  fancy  sees  thee 
In  that  light  disclose, 
And  its  dream  thus  frees  thee 
From  the  mist  of  woes, 
Darkening    thine  earthly  bowers,  oh 
bridal,  royal  Rose ! 


SUMMER. 

BV  WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARKE. 

The  spring's  fair  promise  melted  into 

thee. 
Fair  summer,  and  thy  gentle  reign  is 

here  : 
Thy  emc  raid  robes  are  on  each  heavy 

tree, 
In  the  blue  sky  thy  voice  is  nch  and 

clear ; 
And   the   free   brooks  haA'e  songs  to 

bless  thy  reign — 
They  leaf)  in  music  'midst  thy  bright 

domain. 


SUMMER.  73 

The  gales  that  wander  from  the  un- 
bounded west, 
Are  burthened  with  the  breath  of 
countless  fields  : 

They  teem  wilh  incense  from  the  green 
earth's  breast, 
That  up  to  heaven  its  grateful  odour 
yields, 

Bearing  sweet  hymns  of  praise  from 
many  a  bird, 

By  nature's  aspect  into  rapture  stirred. 

In  such   a  scene,  the  sun  illumined 

heart 
Bounds  like  a  prisoner  in  his  narrow 

cell, 
When  through  its  bars  the  morning 

glories  dart. 
And  forest  anthems  in  his  hearing 

swell : 
And  like  the  heaving  of  the  voiceless 

sea. 
His  panting  bosom  labours  to  be  free. 

Thus,  gazing  on  thy  void  and  sapphire 
sky, 
Oh,    Summer  !    in  my  inmost  soul 
arise 


74  SUMMER. 

Uplifted  thoughts,  to  which  the  woods 
reply, 
And  the  bland  air  with  its  soft  melo- 
dies, 

Till,  basking  in  some  vision's  glorious 
ray, 

I  long  for  eagle's  plumes  to  flee  away. 

I  long  to  cast  this  cumbrous  clay  aside. 
And   the   impure,   unholy   thoughts 
that  cling 

To  the  sad  bosom  torn  with  care  and 
pride  : — 
I  would  soar  upward  on  unfettered 
wing, 

Far  through  the  chambers  of  the  peace- 
ful skies, 

Where  the  high  fount  of  sumrawj 
brightness  lies. 


75 

THE  SUN  AND  MOON 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  EBERT. 

Moon. — On,  Sun  I  ere  thou  closest  thjr 
glorious  career, 
(And  brilliant  thy  wide  course  has 
been,) 
Delay  and  recount  to  my  listening  ear, 
The  things  which  on  earth  thou  hast 
seen. 

Sun. — 1  saw,  as  my  daily  course  I  ran, 
The  various  labours  of  busy  man  ; 
Each  project  vain,  each  emprise  high, 
Lay  open  to  my  searching  eye. 
I  entered  the  peasant's  lowly  door, 
J  shone  on  the  student's  narrow  floor, 
I  gleamed  on  the  sculptor's  statue  pale, 
And   on   the   proud  warrior's  coat  of 

'nail  ,• 
I  shed  my  rays  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
On  the  kneeling    crowds    assembled 

there ; 
In  gilded  hall  and  tapestried  room, 
And  cheered  the  dark  cold  dungeon's 

gloom : 


76  THE  SUN  AND  MOON. 

With  joy  in  happy  eyes  I  shone, 

And  peace  bestowed  where  joy  was 

gone. 
In  tears  upon  the  face  of  care, 
In  pearls  that  decked  the  maiden's 

hair, — 
I  shone  on  all  things,  sad  and  fair. 
But    few    the    eyes    that    turned   to 

heaven 
In  gratitude  for  blessings  given  ; 
As  on  the  horizon's  verge  I  hung, 
No  hymn  or  parting  lay  was  sung. 

Moon. — Thou  risest  in  glory — my  jour- 
ney is  o'er ; 
Alternate  our  gifts  we  bestow  ; 
Yet  seldom  behold  we  the  hearts  that 
adore 
The  source  whence  all  benefits  flow. 


Sun. — Thou  comest,  oh  moon,  with  thy 
soft-beaming  light, 
To  shine   where  ray  presence  has 
been; 
Then  tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  thou  fair 
queen  of  night, 
What  thou  in  thy  travels  hast  een. 


THE  SUN  AND  MOON.  77 

Moon. — I  shone  on  many  a  pillowed 

head, 
On  greensward  rude,  and  downy  bed; 
I  watched  the  infant's  tranquil  sleep. 
Composed  to  rest  so  calm  and  deep; 
The  murderer,  in  his  fearful  dream, 
Woke,  starting  at  my  transient  gleam. 
I  saw,  across  the  midnight  skies, 
Red  flames  from  burning  cities  rise  ; 
And  where,  'mid  foaming  billows'  roar, 
The  vessel  sank  to  rise  no  more — 
I  heard  the  drowning  sailor's  cry 
For  succour,  when  no  help  was  nigh. 
On  mountain  path,  and  forest  glade, 
The  lurkmg  robber's  ambuscade, 
I  shone  :  and  on  the  peaceful  grave 
Where  sleep  the  noble  and  the  brave. 
To  each  and  all  my  light  I  gave  : 
And  as  my  feei)ler  silver  ray 
Vanished  before  the  dawn  of  day 
In  vain  1  lent  my  willing  ear, 
One  word  of  gratitude  to  hear. 

Sun. — We  still  travel  onward  our  task 
to  fulfil. 
Till  time  shall  be  reckoned  no  more ; 
When  all  shall  acknowledge  the  sove- 
reign will, 
That  made  them  to  love  and  adore. 


78 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROTHSAY 
CASTLE  STEAMBOAT.*  183L 


BY  LADY  EMMELINE  STUART  WORTLEY. 

Unknown  !  unclaimed !  tossed,  as  with 

other  weeds, 
To  silent  earth,  and  what  heart  feels 

or  heeds  ? 
And  yet,  perchance,  these  torn  chill 

ashes  were 
To  kindred  bosoms  exquisitely  dear. 
Perchance  !    Ah,  surely  never  yet  on 

earth, 
Lived  one  uncherished  from  his  very 

birth  : 
No,  this  pale  dust  hath  once  most  pre- 
cious been. 
In  eyes  that  viewed  not   life's   last 

frenzying  scene ; 
When  the  fierce  rushing  night  brought 

dread  and  death, 
Stifling  the  latest  prayer  and   latest 

breath. 

•  Two  beautiful  i'laltn  were  lost  in  the  Rothwy 
Castle. 


LOSS  OF  THE  ROTHSAY  CASTLE.     79 

Now  the  cold  sea  to  the  cold  earth  re- 
turns 

These  relics  wan,  o'er  which  no  fond 
one  mourns ! 

The  stranger  on  their  stranger  tene- 
ments 

Casts  a  sad  gaze,  and  momently  la- 
ments ; 

Then,  with  a  sorrowing  mien,  he  turns 
away. 

With  hurrying  steps,  to  leave  th'  un- 
shrouded  clay. 

Yet,  stranger,  turn  again.  Hast  thou 
not  known 

What  'tis  to  love  a  something  all  thine 
own  ? 

Give  to  these  hapless  ones  a  few  meek 
tears, 

Lost  in  the  beauty  of  their  golden  years. 

Look  on  these  pale  forms,  these  broken 
flowers, 

Once  bright  as  rosebuds  in  spring's 
vernal  hours : 

Adopt  these  desolate  orphans  of  the 
grave. 

Bear  them  afar  from  the  dull  moaning 
wave  : 

Gather  with  kind  and  reverential  hands 


80     LOSS  OF  THE  ROTHSAV  CASTLE. 

Their  sacred  ashes  from  the  tide-worn 

sands  ; 
Consign  them  to  some  calm  unstormy 

tomb, 
Where  broods  a  tender  and  a  tearful 

gloom ; 
VlTiere  breathes  no  tempest  gust  to 

shake  their  rest — 
But   south  winds    sweep    the    green 

sward's  flow'ring  breast. 
Oh !  how  unlike  their  death-bed — yon 

mad  sea — 
Where   all  was  awe  and   conquering 

agony  I 
Yet  if  higli  Love  and  heavenly  Faith 

were  there, 
Thou     wert    expelled,    wert    exiled 

thence,  Despair. 
If  that  same    Love    that  tamed   the 

storms  of  old. 
The  Love  almighty,  breathed   where 

thunders  rolled, 
Oh,  how  the  tempests  in  their  hearts 

were  stilled  I 
The   heaven  and  earth  to  those  wild 

terrors  thrilled  : 
Softer  than  warblings  of  the  mother 

dove 


I  TOO  IN  ARCADIA.  81 

Pierced  through  their  souls  the  whis- 
perings of"  tiiat  love. 

Oh  !  let  us  hope,  ye  fair  and  nameless 
dead, 

Deep  blessings  o'er  your  fearful  doom 
were  shed  ; 

And  that  'twas  given  to  ye,  when 
doomed  to  part. 

To  die  soul  linked  in  soul,  and  heart 
to  heart, 

With  your  beloved  ones  !  blessed  even 
thus  to  share 

That  hour's  immeasurable  hope  or  fear. 


AND  I  TOO  IN  ARCADIA. 

BY  MRS.  HEMANS 

A  celebrated  picture  by  Poussin,  represents  a  band 
of  youths  and  miidens  suddenly  coming  upon  a  tomb 
which  bears  the  iosci  iption  "  Et  in  Arcadia  Ego." 

They  have  wandered  in  their  glee 

With  the  butterfly  and  bee. 

They  have  climbed  o'er  heathery 

swells. 
They  have  wound  through  forest 

dells. 

6 


Oa  I  TOO   IN   ARCADIA. 

Mountain  moss  hath  felt  their  tread, 
Woodland  streams  their  way  have 

led! 
Flowers  in  deepest  Oread  nooks, 
Nurslings  of  the  loneliest  brooks, 
Unto  them  have  yielded  up 
Fragrant  bell  and  starry  cup ; 
Chaplets  are  on  every  brow  ; 
What  hath  stayed    the   wanderers 

now  ? 
Lo  a  grey  and  rustic  tomb 
Bowered    amidst    the    rich    wood 
gloom. 
Whence  those  words  their  stricken  bo- 
soms melt — 
"I  too,  shepherds  I  in  Arcadia  dwelt!" 

There  is  many  a  summer  sound 

That  pale  sepulchre  around  ; 

Through  the  shade  young  birds  are 
glancing. 

Insect  wings  in  sun-streaks  danc- 
ing, 

Glimpses  of  blue  festal  skies 

Pouring  in  when  soft  winds  rise : 

Violets  o'er  the  turf  below 

Shedding  out  their  warmest  glowi 

Yet  a  spirit  not  its  own 

O'er  the  greenwood  now  is  thrown  ! 


I   TOO   IN   ARCADIA.  83 

Something  of  an  under  note 
Through  its  music  seems  to  float, 
Something  of  a  stillness  grey 
Creeps  across  the  laughing  day, 
Something  from  those  old  words  felt — 
"I  too,  shepherds,  in  Arcadia  dwelt!" 

Was  some  gentle  kindred  maid 
In  that  grave  with  dirges  laid  ? 
Some  fair  creature  with  the  tone 
Of  whose  voice  a  joy  is  gone, 
Leaving  melody  and  mirth 
Poorer  on  this  altered  earth  ? 
Is  it  thus  ?  that  so  they  stand, 
Dropping  flowers  from  every  hand  ; 
Flowers^  and    lyres,    and    gather'd 

store 
Of  red  wild-fruit,  prized  no  more? 
No,  from  that  bright  band  of  morn 
Not  one  link  hath  yet  been  torn; 
'Tis  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 
Falling  thus  o'er  summer's  bloom, 
O'er  the  fliish  of  love  and  life, 
Passing  with  a  sudden  strife  : 
'Tis  the  low,  prophetic  breath 
Rising  from  the  house  of  death, 

Which  thus  whispers,  those  glad  hearts 
to  melt — 

"  I  too,  shepherds,  in  Arcadia  dwell !" 


84 


INFANCY. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  WOMAN'S  LOVE.' 

How  beautiful  is  infancy  ! 

The  bud  upon  the  tree. 
With  all  its  young  leaves  folded  yet, 

Is  not  so  sweet  to  me. 
How  day-like  a  young  mother  looka 

Upon  the  lovely  thing, 
And  from  its  couch,  at  her  approach, 

How  rosy  sleep  takes  wing. 

O  this  makes  morning's  toilette-hour 

So  beautiful  to  see  ; 
Her  rising  wakens  all  young  things, 

The  babe,  the  bird,  the  bee. 
The  infant  sun-beams,  from  the  clouds 

That  curtain  their  blue  bed, 
Peep  forth,  like  little  ones  that  fear 

Lest  darkness  be  not  fled  ; 
Till  morn  assures  them,  and  they  wave 

Their  saffron  wings,  and  take 
The  rapture  of  their  rosy  flight, 

O'er  lea,  and  lawn,  and  lake  ; 
Gladd'ning  the  glowing  butterflies 

That  float  about  like  flowers. 


b5 


And  the  bee  abroad  on  busy  wing 
To  seek  the  budding  bovvers  ; 

And  breezes  upsprung  from  the  sea, 
And  hurrying  o'er  the  hills, 

Brushing  the  bright  dews  as  they  pass, 
And  rippling  all  the  rills. 

But,  infancy  I  sweet  infancy ! 

Thou'rt  sweeter  than  all  these, 
Than  bird,  or  bee,  or  butterfly, 

Or  bower,  or  beam,  or  breeze, 
Far  sweeter  is  thy  blooming  cheek, 

Thine  eyes  all  bland  and  bright. 
Thy  mouth,  the  rosy  cell  of  sound, 

With  thy  budding  teeth  all  white  ; 
Thy  joyous  sports,  thy  jocund  glee, 

Thy  gushes  of  glad  mirth. 
The  clapping  of  thy  rosy  hands. 

Thou  merriest  thing  on  earth! 
Thou  gift  of  Heaven — thou  promise 
plant — 

On  earth,  in  air,  or  sea, 
There's  nothing  half  so  priceless,  or 

So  beautiful  as  thee ! 


86 


PARIS 

ON  THE  MORNING  OF  LOUIS  THE  SIX- 
TEENTH'S EXECUTION. 

TRANSLATED   BY   MRS.  HEMANS,  FROM   THB 

BASVIGLIANA,  THE  MOST    CELEBRATED 

POLITICAL   POEM   OF  MONTI. 

Hugh  Basville,  envoy  of  the  French  Revolutionary 
Government,  was  put  to  death  at  Rome  by  the  Pope 
for  an  attempt  to  excite  sedition.  The  subject  of 
Monti's  poem  is  the  condemnation  of  Basville's  spirit 
to  traverse  France,  under  the  guidance  of  a  chastis- 
ing angel,  and  contemplate  the  misfortunes  and  re- 
verses to  which  he  has  contributed.  He  is  supposed 
to  enter  Paris,  with  bis  immortal  guide,  at  the  mo- 
ment preceding  the  execution  of  Louis  XVI. 

The  air  was  heavy,  and  the  brooding 
skies 

Looked  fraught  with  omens,  as  to  har- 
monize 

With  his  pale  aspect.  Through  the 
forest  round 

Not  a  leaf  whisper'd,  and  the  only 
sound 


PARIS.  87 

That  broke  the  stillness,  was  a  stream- 
let's moan, 

Murmuring  amidst  the  rocks  with  plain- 
tive tone. 

As  if  a   storm  within  the   woodland 
bowers 

Were  gathering.    On  they  moved,  and 
lol  the  towers 

Of  a  far  city  nearer  now  they  drew, 

And  all  reveal'd   expanding  on  their 
view, 

The  Babylon,  the  scene  of  crimes  and 
woes — 

Paris,  the  guilty,  the  devoted,  rose. 
*  *  *  * 

In  the  dark  mantle  of  a  cloud  arrayed, 

Viewless  and  hush'd,  the  angel  and  the 
shade 

Enter'd  that  evil  city.    Onward  passed 

The  heavenly  being  first,  with  brow 
o'ercast. 

And  troubled  mien ;  while  in  his  glo- 
rious eyes 

Tears  had  obscured  the  splendour  of 
the  skies. 

Pale  with  dismay,  the  trembling  spirit 
saw 

That  altered  aspect,  and  in  breathless 
awe 


Marked    the   strange    silence  round. 

The  deep-toned  swell 
•Of  hfe's  full  tide  was  hush'd  ;  the  sa- 
cred bell, 
The  clamorous  anvil,  mute  :  all  sounds 

were  fled 
Of  labour  or  of  mirth,  and  in  their 

stead 
Terror  and  stillness!  boding  signs  of 

woe — 
Inquiring  glances,  rumours  whisper'd 

low ; 
Questions  half  uttered,  jealous  looks 

that  keep 
A  fearful  watch  around;  and  sadness 

deep. 
That    weighs    upon   the  heart;    and 

voices  heard 
At  intervals,  in  many  a  broken  word  ; 
Voices  of  mothers,  trembhng  as  they 

press'd 
Th'  unconscious  infant  closer  to  their 

breast. 
Voices  of  wives,  with  fond  imploring 

cries, 
And  the  wild  eloquence  of  tears  and 

sighs, 
On  their  own  thresholds  striving  to  de- 
tain 


Their  fierce  impatient  lords ;  but  weak 

and  vain 
Affection's  gentle  bonds  ;  in  that  dread 

hour 
Of  fate  and   fury,  love  hath  lost  his 

power, 
For  evil  spirits  are  abroad — the  air 
Breathes  of  such  influence:  Druid  phan- 
toms there. 
Fired  by  that  thirst  for  victims  which 

of  old 
Raged  in  their  bosoms  fierce  and  un- 

controU'd, 
Rush,  in  ferocious  transport,  to  survey 
The   deepest    crime    that    e'er    hath 

dimm'd  the  day. 
Blood,  human  blood,  hath  stained  their 

vests  and  hair, 
On  the  winds  tossing  with  a  sanguine 

glare, 
Scattering  red   showers  around  them. 

Flaming  brands. 
And  serpent  scourges,  in  their  ruthless 

hands 
Are  wildly  shaken ;  others  lift  on  high 
The  steel,  the  envenom'd  bowl,  and 

hurrying  by 
With  touch  of  fire  contagious  fury  dart 
Through  mortal  veins,  fast  kindling  to 

the  heart. 


90 


Then  comes  the  rush  of  crowds !  re- 
strained no  more, 
Fast  from  each  house  the  frenzied  in 

mates  pour ; 
From  every  heart  affrighted    mercy 

flies, 
While  her  soft  voice  amidst  the  tumult 

dies. 
Then  the  earth  trembles,  as  from  street 

to  street 
The  tramp  of  steeds,  the  press  of  has- 
tening feet, 
The  roll  of  wheels,  all  mingled  in  the 

breeze. 
Come  deepening  onward,  as  the  swell 

of  seas 
Heard  at  dead  midnight ;  or  the  sullen 

moan 
Of  gathering  storms,  or  hollow  boding 

tone 
Of  far  off  thunder.    Then  what  anguish 

press'd, 
O  wretched  Basville !  on  thy  guilty 

breast. 
What  pangs  were  thine,  then  fated  to 

behold 
Death's  awful  banner  to  the  wind  un- 

roll'd  ! 
To  see  the  axe,  the  scaffold  raised  on 

high. 


PARIS.  91 

The  dark  impatience  of  the  murderer's 
eye, 

Eager  for  crime !     And  he,  the  great, 
the  good, 

Thy  martyr-lung,  by  men  athirst  for 
blood, 

Dragg'd  to  a  felon's  death !  yet  still  his 
mien 

'Midst  that  wild  throng,  is  loftily  se- 
rene, 

And  his  step  falters  not  I  oh  hearts  un- 
moved ! 

Where  have  you  borne  your  monarch  ? 
he  who  loved — 

Loved  you  so  vvelll    Behold  the  sun 
grows  pale. 

Shrouding  his  glory  in  a  tearful  veil. 

The  misty  air  is  silent  as  in  dread. 

And  the  dim  sky  with  shadowy  gloom 
o'erspread. 

While  saints  and  martyrs,  spirits  of  the 
blest, 

Look  dowTi   all   weeping  from  their 
bowers  of  rest. 

*  *  *  * 

In  that  dread  moment,  to  the  fatal 

pile 
The  kingly  victim  came,  and  raised  the 

while 


92  PARIS. 

His  patient  glance,  with  such  an  aspect 
high, 

So  firm,  so  calm  in  holy  majesty, 

That  e'en  the  assassin's  heart  one  in- 
stant shook 

Before  the  might  of  that  ascendant 
look, 

And  a  strange  thrill  of  pity,  half  re- 
new'd, 

Stirr'd  through  the  bosom  of  the  multi- 
tude. 


Like  him  who,  breathing  mercy  to  the 

last, 
Pray'd  till  the  bitterness  of  death  was 

past, 
Ev'n  for  his  murderers  prayed,  in  that 

dark  hour 
When  his  soul  yielded  to  affliction's 

power. 
And    the   wind   bore    his   dying  cry 

abroad — 
'•  Hast  thou  forsaken  me,  my  God,  my 

God  ?" 
E'en  thus  the  monarch  stood ;  his  prayer 

arose. 
Thus  calling  down  forgiveness  on  his 

foes ; 


93 


"To  thee  ray  spirit  I  commend,"  he 

cried, — 
"  And  my  lost  people ;  Father,  be  their 

guide  I" 

*  *  *  * 

But  the  sharp  steel  descends :  the  blow 

is  given, 
And  answered  by  a  thunder-peal  from 

heaven  ; 
Earth,  stained  with  blood,  convulsive 

terror  owns. 
And  her  kings  tremble  on  their  distant 

thrones. 


A  LAMENT 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  CAMPBELL, 
YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  OF  COL.  HAR- 
VEY, EDINBURG  CASTLE. 

Our  bright  hopes  have  vanished — her 

young  heart  is  broken  ! 
Her  pale  lips  are  closed,  and  their  last 

words  are  spoken 
Dissolved  all  the  fond  ties  so  lately  that 

bound  her, 
And  blighted  each  joy  that  seemed 

ripening  around  her! 


94 


Could  the  tears  of  thy  kindred — the 

husband  who  shared 
All  thy  heart,  and  thy  hopes,  and  thy 

life,  but  have  spared 
Thy  being's  brief  loveliness  !  how  had 

they  striven 
To  retard  but  one  hour  the  stern  man- 
date of  heaven! 
In  vain  !  for  death's  signet  sat  pale  on 

thy  brow. 
And  their  hopes,  one  by  one,  fell  like 

leaves  from  the  bough! 
Thou  hast  passed  from  our  eyes,  like  a 

bright  summer  cloud 
From  thy  brief  happy  day — from  thy 

home  to  thy  shroud  ! 
When  thy  days  were  the  sweetest,  thy 

young  hopes  the  highest. 
And  the  goal  of  earth  happiness  glim- 

mer'd  the  nighest. 
With  the  rose  on  thy  cheek,  and  thy 

forehead  so  fair, 
Unwasted  by  sorrow,  unfurrowed  by 

care ! 
In  an   hour  that  announced  thee   a 

mother  I  then  drew 
The  dark  veil  of  death  'twixt  thy  child 

and  thy  view! 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT.  95 

Thou  art  gone !    But  the  tempest  that 

levell'd  the  tree, 
One  tendril  has  spared  to  remind  us  of 

thee. 
Remind  us !  what  pain  as  we  dwell  on 

the  word  ! 
Again  thy  loved  accents  in  her's  will 

be  heard  ; 
Affection  will  cling  to  the  treasure  be- 

queatlied, 
And  tell  her,  long  hence,  where  thy 

last  words  were  breathed ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

BY  DR.  R.  MADDEN. 

The  sea  was  smooth,  and  bright  the 
.shore, 

A  cloudless  sky  above, 
But  frail  the  little  bark  that  bore 

A  mother's  freight  of  love  ! 

It  danced  upon  the  morning  tide, 
And  mocked  a  mother's  fears ; 

An  object  of  a  moment's  pride — 
A  subject  soon  of  tears. 


96  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

The  sun  is  gone,  the  sky  is  dark, 

The  sea  is  ruffled  o'er, 
Ah,  me!  where  is  that  little  bark 

That  left  the  joyous  shore  ? 

It  meets  no  more  the  longing  eye, 

It  may  no  more  return  ; 
The  night  is  past,  no  bark  is  nigh; 

The  mourner's  left  (brlorn. 

yet  weep  not,  though  it  meet  no  more 

Thy  gaze  on  yonder  sea, 
Another  and  a  brighter  shore — 

Is  smiling  on  its  lee. 

Another,  and  a  brighter  port 

Is  now  its  peaceful  home 
Where  wail  or  woe,  or  earthly  sort 

Of  care  can  never  come ! 


97 

THE  TEMPTATION  IN  THE 
WILDERNESS. 

BY  BERNARD  BARTON,  ESQ. 

Not  in  the  noise,  the  tumult,  and  the 
crowd, 
Did    the   Arch-tempter   spread  his 
snares  for  Thee  : 

There  he   might  hope  to  catch  the 
vain,  the  proud, 
The  selfish ; — all  who  bend  the  will- 
ing knee 

To  pageants   which   the   world  hatTx 
deified. 

Seeking  from  such  their  pleasure  and. 
tlieir  pride. 

P*it  Thou,  who,  even  in  thy  tarriance 
here. 
Didst  bear  about  Thee  tokens  of  the 
high 
And    holy    influence    of  thy  primal 
sphere. 
Stamping    thy  manhood    with    Di- 
vinity ! 

7 


98  THE  TEMPTATION. 

VVho,  IN  the  world,  werl  still  not  of 

it— Thou, 
He  could    not  hope,  unto  its  spells 

would 'st  bow. 

Therefore  he  sought  and  found  Thee — 
in  the  gloom 
Of  the  vast  wilderness,  perchance 
employed 

In  meditating  on  man's  hapless  doom ; 
Who  but  for  sin  had  still  in  peace 
enjoyed 

The  bliss  of  Eden,  ere  the  serpent's 
thrall 

Had  wrought  our  earliest  parents'  fa- 
tal fall. 

But  vain  the  tempter's  power  and  art! 

Though  spent 
With  long,  lone  fasting  in  that  desert 

drear. 
Thou,  in  thy  Deity  omnipotent. 

As   man — from  human   crimes  and 

follies  clear, 
Wert  still  temptation-proof,  from  frailty 

free: 
He  left— and  Angels  ministered  to 

Thee! 


GRAVES  OF  HINDOSTAN.  99 

Oh!  then,  as  Eden,  when  by  sin  de- 
filed. 
Was  Paradise  no  more,  thy  pre- 
sence made 

A  brief  Elysium  in  the  desert  wild. 
And  more  than  sunshine  pierced  its 
matted  shade ; 

Its  darkest  depths  by  heavenly  hosts 
were  trod, 

And  the  rude  wilderness  confessed  its 
God! 


THE  GRAVES  OF  HINDOSTAN. 

BY  MISS  EMMA  ROBERTS. 

When  the  coming  shadows  rest, 

(A  welcome  sight)  on  India's  plains, 
And  o'er  the  brightly  glowing  west 

The  sun  has  flung  his  amber  stains — 
When  the  tired  Golier*  drops  his  oar, 
And  nears  his  light  bark  to  the  shore — 
When  the  rich  odorous  scent  that  dwells 
Amid  the  banbooi's  golden  cells, 

•  One  of  the  piiDcipal  boatmen,  who  stands  at  the 
prow  with  an  oar,  sounding,  as  the  vessel  passes 
llirough  shallow  water. 


100  GRAVES  OF  HINDOSTA.N. 

Moved  by  the  gale's  soft  witcheries, 
Comes  stealing  out  in  balmy  sighs — 
When,  glancing  in  the  sloping  beam, 
Pearl-like,    or    bright    with   emerald 

gleam, 
The  rice  birds  and  the  paroquets 

Across  the  golden  ether  sweep; 
And  lamps  from  distant  minarets, 

And   groves   begemmed  vvrith  fire- 
flies, peep — 
When  *he  pagoda's  silvery  bell 
The  near  approach  of  eve  doth  tell — 
How  gladly  then  the  eye  reposes. 

Dazzled  with  noontide's  fiery  blaze, 
Upon  the  scene  which  she  discloses, 

Beneath  her  mild,  attempered  rays ! 
How  gladly  then  the  prisoned  feet 
Seek  out  some  green  and  cool  retreat! 
Long  in  the  cabined  budgerow  pent. 

We  track  the  river's  winding  shore ; 
Or,  springing  from  the  sultry  tent, 

The  broad  expanse  around  explore 
And  both  are  beautiful — the  tanks 
Are    brimming    o'er    their    flower- 
wreathed  banks. 
Reflecting,  in  their  glassy  lakes, 
The  tangled  jungle's  leafy  brakes. 
The  tail  mosque's  pinnacled  minars. 
And  heaven's  bright  host  of  countless 
stars ; 


GRAVES  OF  HINDOSTAN.  lOl 

While  'neath  the  river's  towering  ciiffi, 
Whose  sunlit  points  in  splendour 
glow, 
A  fairy  fleet  of  graceful  skiffs 
Dance  with  the  dancing  current's 
flow. 

Whene'er  through  copse  and  flowery 

glade, 
In  the  cool  evening  air  I've  strayed, 
However  bright  and  richly  fraught 

The  varied  scene  before  me  spread. 
My  wandering  footsteps  still  have 

sought 
The  quiet  mansions  of  the  dead — 
The  scattered  graves  where  Moslems 

lie, 
Enshrnied  within  their  massy  tombs. 
Beneath  some  tall  tree's  canopy, 
Which  mantles  o'er  their  sacred 

homes : 
And  not  those  crowdec  chamels, 

where 
A  sickening  taint  infects  the  air, 
And   o'er  each  dark  and   loathsome 

grave 
Earth's  rankest  weeds  delight  to  wave : 
Where  from  the  boughs  of  mournful 

trees, 


102  GRAVES  OF  HINDOSTAN. 

The  vulture  snuffs  the  plague-fraught 

breeze ; 
And  where  the  prowling  jackalls  lurk, 

'Mid  crumbling  bones  and  ruins  grey, 
And  hasten  to  their  filthy  w'ork, 

With  the  first  fall  of  parting  day. 
How  many  saddening  feelings  rise 
Within  these  gloomy  cemet'ries ! 
How  many  thoughts  oppress  the  heart, 

Where,  early  doomed,  an  exiled  band, 
From  their  paternal  homes  apart, 

Lie  buried  in  a  heathen  land,* 
Unwept,  unhonoured,  and  unknown 

Perchance  without  a  stone  to  trace 
The  mound  so  desolate  and  lone, 

Above  their  gloomy  dwelling-place. 
Far  different  is  the  Moslem's  lot 

Beneath  his  own  bright  dazzling 
skies ; 
In  some  romantic,  chosen  spot, 

Circled  with  cheerful  scenes,  he  lies: 
And  there  the  lamp  is  duly  fed. 

When  evening's  dusky  shades  ap- 
pear, 

•  The  Moosaulmaun  population  of  India  bean  a 
very  small  proportion  to  that  of  the  Hindoo ;  and 
Mohammed's  creed  is  so  corrupted,  that  it  it  little 
removed  from  idolatry. 


GRAVES  OF  HINDOSTAN.  103 

And  wreaths  of  bright-leaved  flow'rete 
shed 

Upon  the  consecrated  bier. 
From  the  proud  Mausoleum's  walls, 

Where  mighty  Acbar's  cold  remains 
Repose  within  ihe  marble  halls, 

The  palace-tomb  of  Agra's  plains — 
To  the  small  Musjeed's*  lowly  porch. 
Flames  out  at  eve  the  signal  torch  ; 
And,  where  a  true  believer  sleeps, 

Some  brother's  hand,  with  pious  care, 
The   cumbered   earth    around   him 
sweeps, 

And  plucks  the  dark  grass  gathering 
there. 

Oh !  since  beyond  the  western  wave 
1  may  not  hope  to  find  a  grave, 
Nor  yield  my  parting  spirit  up, 
Where  springs  the  glittering  butter- 
cup. 
And  daisies  lend  their  silvery  shrouds, 
And  violets  mourn  in  purple  clouds : 


•  A  temple — a  form  id  which  Moosaulmaun 
tombs  are  often  built ;  they  are  generally  to  be  found 
in  picturesque  situations,  sometimes  in  the  centre  of 
a  garden,  and  few  are  without  the  lamp,  often  fed 
by  the  hands  of  strangers. 


04  GRAVKS  OF  HINDOSTAN. 

Where  the  green  moss  is  overspread, 
In  spring-time,  with  the  pM-imrose 
pale. 
And  the  red  wall-flower  lifts  its  head, 
And  sheds  its  sweets  on  autumn's 
gale  ;— 
Where  'mid    bleak  winter's  chilling 

gloom, 
The  scarlet-berried  hollies  bloom  ; 
Where,  at  the  flush  of  early  mom, 

The  lark  his  thrilling  matin  sings, 
And  evening's  vesper  hymns  are  borne, 

In  soft  and  fitful  murmurings, 
From  sheep-bells  tinkling  far  and  faint, 
Frum    breezes    whispering    music 
round. 
From  the   wood-pigeon's    ceaseless 
plaint. 
And  bubbling  brooklets'  lulling 
sound  : — 
Give  me  a  sepulchre,  remote 

From  human  haunts,  some  forest  cell, 
Where  giant  flowers,  hke  banners,  float 

Above  the  leafy  citadel ; — 
Where  the  small  moose-deer  makes  his 
lair. 
And  gambols  blythely  all  day  long, 
And  the  bright  wanderers  of  the  air 
Gladden  the  woods  with  bursts  of 
song; 


GRAVES  OF  HINDOSTAN.  105 

Where    on  those  dark   and    starless 
nights, 
When  gloora  profound  the  sky  per- 
vades, 
Its  gem-like  lamp  the  fire-fly  lights. 

And  glitters  'mid  the  dusky  shades  ; 
Where,   when  the  notes  from  every 

spray, 
With  the  sun's  rays  have  died  away. 
The  sighing  night-wind's  pensive  wail 
Will  breathe  a  melancholy  tale, 
Telling,  should  wandering  steps  in- 
trude 
Upon  the  tangled  solitude, 
The  story  of  the  exile,  lost 
To  all  that  youth's  bright  augurs 
gave, 
And  finding  on  a  foreign  coast, 
One  sole,  sad  boon,  a  lonely  grave. 
Cawnpore. 


106 

THE  COTTAGE  EMIGRANTS' 
FAREWELL. 

BY  MISS  AGNES  STRICKLAND. 

In  a  lone  mossy  dingle, 

By  green  trees  o'erhung, 
Their  wild  song  of  sorrow 

Tiiree  Highland  maids  sung, — 
Who  were  doomed,  with  their  people 

In  exile  lo  roam 
O'er  the  stormy  Atlantic, 

To  seek  for  a  home. 

For  the  hearths  of  their  fathers, 

By  Want's  chilling  hand 
Had  been  sternly  extinguished 

That  morn  in  the  land  ,• 
And  they  came,  for  the  last  time, 

All  weeping,  to  bring 
The  cool  gushing  waters 

From  that  pleasant  spring. 

It  was  piteous  to  see 

How  their  sweet  eyes  grew  dim. 
With  their  fast  flowing  tears, 

As  they  hung  o'er  its  brim. 


emigrant's  farewell.       107 

And  looked  their  farewell 

To  that  beautiful  spot, 
Endeareu  by  those  ties 

Which  could  ne'er  be  forgot 

And  oft  from  their  vessels, 

Replenished  in  vain, 
They  restored  the  pure  stream 

To  the  fountain  again  ; 
As  fondly  they  lingered, 

And,  loth  to  depart. 
They  sobbed  forth  their  grief 

In  the  anguish  of  heart. 

"  Dear  fountain  of  our  native  glen! 

Far  hence  we're  doomed  to  go  ; 
And  soon  for  other  urns  than  ours 

Thy  crystal  streams  will  flow. 

"  Thy  snowy  lilies  still  will  bloom 

On  this  delightful  spot, 
Sweet  fountain  of  our  native  glen! 

Though  we  behold  them  not. 

"  And  thou  wilt,  from  thy  sparkling  cell, 

Still  softly  murmur  on, 
When  those  who  loved  thy  voice  to 
hear, 

To  other  lands  are  gone. 


108  KPICKDIUM. 

"  Dear  fountain  of  our  native  glen ! 

Beloved  by  us  in  vain, 
That  pleasant  sound  shall  never  glad 

Our  pensive  ears  again. 

"  Dear  fountain  of  our  native  glen! 

Which  we  no  more  must  view, 
With  breaking  hearts  thy  children  poui 

Their  long— their  last  adieu." 


EPICEDIUM. 

BY  HENRY  ALFORD. 

The  turf  is  green  upon  thee, 

Thou'rt  wedded  to  thy  rest, 
With  the  cold  damp  earth  about  thee, 

And  thine  arms  across  thy  breast : 
The  light  hath  waned  around  thee, 

In  which  thy  spirit  breathed  ; 
And  thou  hast  faded  from  the  flowers 

With  which  thy  brow  was  wreathed. 

Oh !  thou  wert  mild  and  beautiful, 
A  sunbeam  in  life's  showers  ; 

Thou  wert  too  mild  and  beautiful 
For  this  frail  earth  of  ours : 


DERWENT  WATER.  109 

So  they  have  taken  thee  away — 

Fair  spirits  like  thine  own, 
And  thou  art  gone  to  be  with  them 

In  sight  of  God's  high  throne. 

Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 


TO  DERWENT  WATER. 

T  BLESS  thee,  but  thou  canst  not  know 

Why,  lovely  lake,  I  bless  thee  so ! 

I  kiss  the  tiny  ripple  thrown 

By  pulses  on  thy  margin  stone  ; — 

I  woo  thee  with  a  lover's  care, 

And  words  more  soft  than  summer  air; 

I've  languished  oft  for  thee  of  yore 

On  ocean  wave  and  tropic  shore ! — 

Not  for  thou  tum'st  thine  azure  eye. 

Like  smiling  infant,  on  the  sky; — 

Not  for  that  on  thy  virgin  face 

Is  mirrored  majesty  with  grace ; 

Oh !    not  for  this, — though  youth  be 

mine, — 
Swells  my  fixed  soul  within  her  shrine : 
In  sooth,  dear  thought  of,  dreamt  of 

lake! 
I  love  thee  for  my  sweet  maid's  sake ! 
H.  N.  C. 


110 


WINDERMERE. 

Thy  calm,  romantic  beauty  who  can 
see, 
The  woods  of  green  that  bend  to  kiss 

thy  tide. 
Thy  bowery  isles  that  smile  in  ver- 
dure's pride, 
Nor  grow  enamoured,  lovely  lake,  of 

thee? 
At  dewy  dawn  to  roam  the  mountains 
o'er, 
That  gird  thee  round  like  gloomy 

sentinels. 
While  far  beneath  thy  purple  bosom 
swells; 
At  sultry  noon  to  seek  thy  eavemed 

shore. 
There  woo  the  freshness  of  the  per- 
fumed gale, 
List  the  wild   cascade  murmuring 

down  thy  rocks, 
The   song  of  birds,  and    bleat  of 
sportive  flocks ; 
At  eve  to  skim  thy  wave  with  noise- 
less sail. 


THE  WILD  FERN.  Ill 

Watch  day's  last  trembling  radiance 

fire  thy  breast : — 
Thus — thus  to  live,  were  surely  to  be 

blest. 


TO  THE  WILD  FERN. 

BY  J.  F.  HOLLINGS,  ESQ. 

Thy  place  is  not  where  art  exults  to 

raise  the  tended  flower, 
By  terraced  walk,  or  decked  parterre, 

or  fenced  and  sheltered  bower  ; 
Nor    where,    tlie     straightly-levelled 

walls  of  tangled  boughs  between, 
The  sunbeam  sweeps  the  velvet  sward, 

and  streams  through  alleys  green. 

Thy  dwelling  is  the  desert  heath — the 

wood — the  haunted  dell. 
And   where   the   wild  deer  stoops  to 

drink  beside  the  mossy  well ; 
And  by  the  lake,  with  trembling  stars 

inlaid  when  earth  is  still, 
And  midnight's  melancholy  pomp  is  on 

the  distant  hill 


112  THE  WILD  FERN. 

But  fairer  than  the  lightest  bud,  on 

spring's  fresh  couch  whicii  lies  ; 
And  fairer  than  the  gentlest  flower, 

which  glows  'neath  summer  skies  ; 
Or  autumn's  soft  and  mellowed  tints 

upon  the  fading  tree  ; — 
Companion  of  the  left  and  worn  !  thy 

leaf  appears  to  me. 

For  I  have  loved  where  thou  wert 

reared    in    greenest    strength,    to 

stray, 
And  mark  thy  feathery  stem  upraised 

o'er  lichened  ruins  grey  : 
Or  in  the  fairy  moonlight  bent,  to  meet 

the  silvering  hue; 
Or  glistening  yet,  when  noon  was  high, 

with  morn's  unvanished  dew. 

And  if  the  place  were  mine  to  choose, 

when  being's  night  should  call, 
Where,  on  this  ever-verdant  earth,  to 

share  the  sleep  of  all. 
My  grave  should   be  the  mountain's 

height,  where  giasts   were  sighing 

lone, 
And  thou  in  graceful  pride  wert  nigh, 

to  deck  the  funeral  stone. 


THE  WILD  FERN.  113 

It  is  a  vain  and  baseless  trust,  by  err- 
ing thoughts  imprest; 

But  how  resides  its  sleepless  power 
within  the  musing  breast  ? 

That  yet  the  soul  shall  wander  back 
from  that  far-distant  shore, 

And  linger  by  its  wonted  haunts,  and 
where  it  strove  before. 

Thus  to  its  false  and  frail  abode  the 

yearning  spirit  clings , 
Thus  lingers  human  love  below,  with 

unaspiring  wings  : 
And  what  on  life's  o'erclouded  way 

one  gleam  of  joy  has  cast, 
We  fondly  think  shall  still  allure  when 

life — grief— toil — are  past. 


8 


114 


OH!  LET  US  JNEVER  MEET 
AGAIN! 

BY  MISS  LOUISA  H.  SHERIDAN. 

Nay,  seek  no  more  with  soothing  art 

(Since   all  our  hours  of  love    are 
vanished), 
To  cheer  with  hope  this  aching  heart, 

From  which  all   thought  of  joy   is 
banished  ! 
Thou  lov'st  no  more !  too  well  I  know, 

All  hope  to  bring  thee  back  is  vain : 
And,  as  I'd  hide,  from  all,  my  woe, 

Oh !  let  us  never  meet  again ! 

I'll  shun  thee  in  the  festive  hall, 
Where  joyous  forms  around  are  seen. 

Lest  I  might  weep  to  think  of  all 
Those  scenes  where  we've  together 
been ! 

I'll  shun  thee  where  the  tide  of  song 
Comes  o'er  my  ear  with  well-known 
strain  : 

Thy  tones  would  on  my  mem'ry  throng- 
So  let  us  never  meet  again ! 


LET  US  NEVER  MEET  AGAIN.   115 

No  more  my  favourite  bard  I'll  read, 
For  thou  hast  marked  each  well- 
known  page : 
*Tis  cold  forgetfulness  I  need  ; 
Nought  else   my  sorrow  could  as- 
suage. 
I  cannot  seek  my  pencil's  aid, 

'Twould  sadly  call   forth  mem'ry's 
train ; 
With  thee  I've  sketched  each  hill  and 
glade, 
Where  we  shall  never  meet  again ! 

And  e'en  my  pen  is  faithless  now ; 

To  seek  new  themes  'twill  not  be 
taught : — 
It  still  would  keep  my  early  vow 

To  write  to  thee  my  inmost  thought. 
But  I  will  ne'er  address  thee  more  ! 

My    proud    and    wounded    heart 
'twould  pain, 
If  thou  shouldst  now  my  grief  deplore 

Oh !  may  we  never  meet  again ! 


116 
NOON. 

BY  J.  F.  ROLLINGS,  ESft. 

Here,  where  the  elder's  bough,  with 
snow-white  flowers, 
O'erhangs  the  dewy  bank,  and  slowly 

creep 
The  reed-entangled  waters,  brown 
and  deep, 
From  slumbrous  stay  beneath  the  forest 

bowers, 
Sit  we  awhile ;  and  let  the  sultry  hours 
Steal  on  unmarked.    With  time  and 

scene  like  this, 
Song  would  be  luxury,  and  music 
bliss, 
And  poesy  thrice  armed  with  melting 

powers. 
By  such  a  shore,  methinks,  and  such  a 
stream, 
Drank  ecstacy  that  bard  of  olden 
time, 
When  crowding  came  upon  his  noon* 
tide  dream. 
Satyr,  and  knight,  and  sage  with 
muttered  rhjone, 


THE  UNWILLING  BRIDE.  117 

And  Talus,  and  that  shield  with  sun- 
bright  beam, 
And  She,  with  ebon  lance  and  crest 
sublime. 


THE  UNWILLING  BRIDE. 

BY  THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY,  ESQ. 

The  joy-bells  are  ringing — oh!  come 
to  the  church : 

We  shall  see  the  bride  pass,  if  we  stand 
in  the  porch. 

The  bridegroom  is  wealthy :  how 
brightly  arrayed 

Are  the  menials  who  wait  on  the  gay 
cavalcade ; 

The  steeds  with  the  chariots  prancing 
along. 

And  the  peasants  advancing  with  mu- 
sic and  song 

Now  comes  the  procession :  the  bride- 
maids  are  there, 

With  white  robes,  and  ribbons,  and 
wreaths  in  their  hair. 


118  THE  UNWILLING  BRIDE. 

Yon  feeble  old  knight  the  bride's  father 

must  be, 
And  now,  walking  proudly,  her  mother 

we  see  ; 
A  pale  girl  in  tears  slowly  moves  by 

her  side  : 
But  where   is    the    bridegroom,  and 

where  is  the  bride  ? 

They  kneel  round  the  altar — the  organ 

has  ceased. 
The  hands  of  the  lovers  are  joined  by 

the  priest ; 
That  bond !  which  death  only  can  sever 

again  I 
Which  proves  ever  after  life's  blessing 

or  bane ! 
A  bridal  like  this  is  a  sorrovs^ful  eight: 
See !  the  pale  girl  is  bride  to  the  feeble 

old  knight. 

Her  hand  on  her  husband's  arm  pas- 
sively lies, 

And  closely  she  draws  her  rich  veil 
o'er  her  eyes. 

Her  friends  throng  around  her  with 
accents  of  love  : 

She  speaks  not — her  pale  lips  inaudi- 
bly  move. 


THE  UNWILLING  BRIDE.  119 

Her  equipage  waits — she  is  placed  by 

the  side 
Of  her  aged  companion — a  sorrowing 

bride ! 

Again  the  bells  ring,  and  the  moment 
is  come 

For  the  young  heart's  worst  trial,  the 
last  look  of  home ! 

They  pass  from  the  village — how 
eagerly  still 

She  turns  and  looks  back  from  the 
brow  of  the  hill! 

She  sees  the  white  cottage — the  gar- 
den she  made — 

And  she  thinks  of  her  lover,  aban- 
doned— betrayed ! 

But  who,  with  arms  folded,  hath  lin- 
gered so  long 

To  watch  the  procession,  apart  from 
the  throng  ? 

'Tis  he  !  the  forsaken !  The  false  one 
is  gone — 

He  turns  to  his  desolate  dwelling  alone ; 

But  happier  ikere^  than  the  doom  that 
awaits 

The  bride  who  must  smile  on  a  being 
she  hates ! 


120 
THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 

Suggested  by  an  Engraving  from  Salvator  RoMU 
BY  BERNARD  BARTON,  ESQ. 

He  kneels  amid  the  brutish  herd, 

But  not  in  dumb  despair ; 
For  passion's  holiest  depths  are  stirred, 

And  grief  finds  vent  in  prayer. 

Not  abject,  though  in  wretchedness ; 

For  faith  and  hope  supply. 
In  this  dread  hour  of  deep  distress. 

Their  feelings  pure  and  high. 

While  thus  a  suppliant  he  kneels, 
"  Cast  down,  but  not  destroyed," 

A  sweeter  bliss  his  sorrow  feels 
Than  riot  e'er  enjoyed. 

"  I  will  arise,"  his  looks  declare, 
"  And  seek  my  father's  face : 

His  servants  still  have  bread  to  spare  ; 
Be  mine  a  servant's  place." 

And  soon  each  penitential  hope 
For  him  shall  be  fulfilled  ; 


WITH  CHRIST.  121 

For  him  his  father's  arms  shall  ope, 
The  fatted  calf  be  killed. 

O  Penitence !  how  strong  thy  spell. 

O'er  hearts  by  anguish  riven ! 
Victorious  over  death  and  hell, 
Of  mercy's  power  it  loves  to  tell, 
\nd  whispers,  for  despair's  stem  knell, 
"Repent!  and  be  forgiven !" 


WITH  CHRIST. 

BY  RICHARD  HOWITT,  ESQ. 

There  is  such  life  in  all  his  words. 

As  o'er  from  page  to  page  we  turn, 
Such  truth,  such  eloquence,  and  power, 

Our  hearts  within  us  bum. 
It  cannot  be  the  time  is  gone, 

We  cannot  think  the  sera  past, 
Nor  deem  that  in  another  cUme 

And  age  our  lot  is  cast. 

As  on  we  move  from  field  to  field, 
From  village  unto  village  on, 

He,  with  the  following  multitude, 
Seem  thence  before  us  gone. 


123  WITH  CHRIST. 

We  press  to  see  whom  thousands  seek, 
We   hear  the   glowing  words  they 
hear, 

Knowledge  as  boundless  as  the  skies, 
And  wisdom's  language  clear. 

Him,  when  alone,  we  find  alone, 

Left  in  the  desert  place, 
Whence  his  pervading  eye  and  mind 

Speed  through  all  time  and  space. 
But  how  can  He  apart  be  left, 

Whom  from  man's  haunts  a  space 
we  find, 
Who,  in  his  comprehensive  heart, 

Clasps  all  of  human  kind ! 

"  Entering  the  proud  Jerusalem, 

We  see  him  when  he  deigned  to  ride, 
By  an  immeasurable  stream 

Of  people  deified." 
We  think  upon  the  health,  the  strength, 

The  light,  the  life  he  gave  ; 
We  see  him  conquering  the  wind. 

And  walking  on  the  wave. 

And  in  the  dread  and  trying  hour 
When  shameful  death  was  near, 

When  the  two  spirits  of  the  earth 
Were  agony  and  fear ;— 


THE  DROP  AND  THE  RIVER.       123 

vVhen  night  came  down  upon  the  day. 
And  death,  as  from  a  throne, 

Seemed,  for  a  little  space,  to  rule 
The  universe  alone. 

We  see  him  bursting  from  the  tomb 

Whom  mortals  thought  to  slay, 
Superior  to  the  common  bands 

Which  fetter  lifeless  clay. 
And  in  the  sad,  yet  glorious  time, 

Followed  by  mournful  eyes, 
We  see  him  till  we  see  him  not, 

Ascending  through  the  skies. 


THE  DROP  AND  THE  RIVER. 

From  Pignotti. 
BY  ARCHDEACON  WRANGHAM. 

Nurtured  up)on  Aurora's  breast, 
A  little  lucid  drop  was  seen 

(From  its  soft,  dewy  seat  displaced), 
Descendmg  through  the  blue  serene. 

On  wanton  Zephyr's  wing  upborne 
Gently  it  floated  in  mid  air. 


124       THE  DROP  AND  THE  RIVER. 

And  from  its  glittering  orb  threw  back 
The  dawn's  young  beams,  that  qui- 
vered there ; 

In  slow  and  quiet  circles,  still 
Hovering    and    lingering — Ah!   in 
vain  ; 

For  now,  on  peril's  brink,  it  hung 
O'er  the  broad  bosom  of  the  main. 

There,  as  it  heard  the  thunders  roar, 
And  saw  the  angry  billows  swell, 

Saw  it  must  quickly  be  ingulfed 
Within  that  dark  receptacle ; 

In  terror's  anguished  tone  it  cried — 
"  What  destiny,  alas !  is  mine, 

Being  at  once  and  name  to  lose, 
Whelmed  in  this  black  and  bitter 
brine ! 

"  A  tiny  liquid  atom  I, 

To  the  keen-sighted  glance  scarce 
known — 
Ah !  what  must  be  my  hapless  fate, 

'Midst  Ocean's  boiling  surges  thrown? 

"  Ye  gentle  daughters  of  the  Mom, 
Sweet  breezes  that  in  ether  play, 


THE  DROP  AND  THE  RIVER.       125 

Oh !  bear  me  on  your  buoyant  wings ! 
Oh !  snatch  me  from  that  fate  away ! 

"  Dread  father  Phoebus,  lord  of  light  I 
Bid  thy  all-potent  fires  prevail, 

That  so,  expanded  and  diffused. 
This  frame  in  vapour  may  exhale." 

Fruitless,  alas !  were  all  those  prayers, 
To  an  unhearing  power  addrest ! 

Near  and  more  near,  it  trembles  now 
On  that  blue  surge's  foam-tipt  crest. 

But  lo!  where  down  yon  mountain's 
side, 

In  all  his  gathered  force  amain 
Hurrying,  a  headlong  River  sweeps, 

With  wreck  and  ruin  in  his  train. 

With  harsh  and  hollow-sounding  roar, 
He  flashes  on  from  steep  to  steep : 

Couched  on  their  far-off  flinty  bed, 
The  startled  shepherds  bound  from 
sleep : 

Then  rushing  o'er  the  fertile  plain, 
He  spreads  his  furious  flood  so  wide 

That  scarce  the  forest's  topmost  boughs 
Appear  above  the  tossing  tide. 


126        THE  DROP  AND  THE  RIVER. 

And  whirled  in  many  an  eddying  maze, 
Upon  the  torrent  rough  and  strong, 

Oaks,  their  vast  roots  in  air,  are  seen, 
With  herds  and  herdsmen,  rolled 
along. 

In  all  its  bright  and  broad  expanse 
Revealed,  he  views  the  placid  Sea ; 

And  deems  himself  to  its  stern  might 
Equal,  if  not  superior  he  I 

"  Is  this" — the  haughty  blusterer  thus 
Questions,  in  accents  of  disdain — 

"This,  what  I  still   have  heard  pro- 
claimed, 
Th'  immense,  interminable  Main  ? 

"  Let  me  but  meet  the  swelling  foe, 
And  soon,  in  my  victorious  wave, 
Thetis  and  Ocean's  self  shall  find, 
With  all  their  train,  a  common  grave.' 

Then — so  to  quell  th'  advancing  tide 
With  energies  concentrated — 

He  bids  his  closing  billows  flow 
Within  a  narrower,  deeper  bed. 

Trembles  each  bank  beneath  the  shock, 
As  forth  the  mingling  currents  pour 


THE  DROP  AND  THE  RIVER.       127 

Their  frantic  force ;  and,  blanched  with 
foam, 
Speed  onward  to  th'  opposing  shore. 

And  thus  to  war  implacable, 

With  tongue  of  taunt,  and  heart  of 
pride, 
Are  Neptune  and  his  subject  gods 

And  all  their  briny  realms,  defied. 

But  now,  from  far,  slow-moving  on, 
The  stately  Main  in  tranquil  flow, 

Resistless  combatant !  invades 
The  confines  of  the  vaunting  foe. 

Marking  th'  unruffled  dignity 

(At  distance  seen)  of  Ocean's  waves, 

His  headlong  course  the  River  plies, 
And  with  augmented  fury  raves. 

And  now  they  meet.and  now  they  clash, 
Flood    fierce    encountering   hostile 
flood; 
While    trickling   showers   of  silvery 
spray 
Attest  the  agonizing  feud. 

Hemmed  in  the  narrow  pass,  Sir  Stream 
Tosses,  and  fain  would  hurry  on  : 


128   THE  DROP  AND  THE  RIVER. 

And  wheels  in  many  a  circling  whirl, 
And  utters  many  a  wailing  groan. 

Wrenched  from  its  nether  depths,  the 
sand 

In  turbid  jets  around,  above 
Is  hurled — the  banks  the  crash  repeat — 

While  Ocean  scarce  is  seen  to  move. 

No  tempest  blackens  at  his  beck, 
No  storm  he  summons  to  his  aid ; 

But  far  and  wide  his  azure  back 
In  smooth  serenity  is  spread. 

And  thus,  like  vilest  things  unfelt. 

In  still  and  silent  majesty, 
Without  an  effort,  he  subdues 

His  struggling,  sinking  enemy  ; 

Who  now,  with  severed,  broken  force, 
His  vigour  spent,  his  vapouring  gone, 

In  the  vast  bitter  gulf  immerged 
Steals  to  his  fate  unseen,  unknown. 

Forgotten  thus  the  braggart  Brook, 
And  lost  in  Ocean's  yawning  tomb, 

Of  the  poor  solitary  Drop, 
Ah!   what  shall  be  the  wretched 
doom? 


THE  DROP  AND  THE  RIVER.        129 

[t  falls — but  on  the  very  verge 
Of  mingling  with    the    boundless 
main, 

A  shell  within  its  silver  breast 
Receives  the  shrinking  denizen  ; 

And  by  its  vivifying  juice 

Pervades    and    quickens  what   it 
shrines, 
Till,  in  its  bright  recess,  a  pearl 

Of  purest  ray  serenely  shines — 

A  pearl,  which  after  many  a  turn 
Of  splendid  change,  with  lucid  beam 

Glitters,  exalted,  in  the  front 
Of  Asia's  proudest  diadem. 

And  still  in  meek  and  modest  guise 
Throned  (timid  gem !)  on  regal  brow, 

With  servile  homage  in  the  dust 
Sees     haughtiest    satraps    prostrate 
bow. 


Instructed  by  these  different  fates. 
Let  lowly,  lofty  natures  know 

What  blessings  from  humility. 
From  arrogance  what  mischiefs  flow 

Q 


130 


THE  FAREWELL  OF  COLONNA. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century  the 
Italian  wars  had  exiled  a  considerable  number  of  dis- 
tinguished men  from  their  respective  homes.  Among 
the  rest  was  Stephano  Colonna,  of  the  illustrious  Ro- 
man family  of  the  name.  He  was  charged  with  ihe 
singular  offence  of  laying  a  spell  on  Leonore,  a 
daughter  of  one  of  the  princes  of  the  house  of  D'Esfe, 
which  deprived  her  of  the  power  of  sleep.  The 
princess  had  for  some  time  "outwatched  the  stars," 
and  written  various  MSS.  which  she  scattered  and 
tore,  and  had  completed  the  evidence  of  her  being 
in  the  hands  of  witchcraft,  by  refusing  to  share  the 
throne  of  Naples.  The  spell  might  more  easily 
have  been  accounted  for  by  the  grace,  wit,  and  pas- 
sion of  Stephano  Colonna,  one  of  the  handsomest 
cavaliers  of  the  land  of  romance.  It  is  not  improba- 
ble, too,  that  he  had,  according  to  the  habit  of  his 
age,  actually  made  some  use  of  the  supposed  powers 
of  the  magician,  or  seer,  Fabricio,  who  committed 
such  havoc  in  cabinets  and  alcoves  with  the  heads  of 
statesmen  and  he-arts  of  ladies,  towards  the  close  of 
the  fifteenth  and  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  centuries. 
On  Colonna,  when  he  was  arrested,  was  certainly 
found  an  amulet  of  the  Bezoar.  which  he  confessed  to 
be  a  talisman,  purchased  at  a  high  price  from  a  Moor; 
with  a  paper  of  mystic  characters,  for  which  he  ac- 
knowledged that  he  was  waiting  the  interpretation 
by  a  spirit  who  obeyed  the  enchanter.  However,  he 
declared  himself  perfectly  innocent  of  any  attempt  to 
•xert  those  singular  powers  on  the  princess.    Tba 


FAREWELL  OF  COLONNA.        131 

inflaence  of  his  family  saved  him  from  the  fate  of  a 
dealer  with  the  evil  one.  But  he  was  compelled  to 
quit  Italy  for  ever.  This  to  him  was  worse  than 
death.  But  the  law  was  not  merciful  enough  to 
grant  his  wish;  and  in  despair  he  took  service  in  the 
first  expedition  under  Columbus.  It  should  be  stated 
for  the  gratification  of  those  who  think  that  faithful 
love  ought  always  to  be  fortunate  love,  that  Stephano 
returned  to  Europe  with  all  his  misfortunes  turned 
into  fame,  by  the  discovery  of  the  new  world  ;  that 
he  found  his  princess  faithful,  and  that  Colonna  and 
his  fair  bride  became  the  theme  of  Italy,  for  love, 
prosperity,  and  an  illustrious  o£Fspring. 

The  sea,  the  bright  and  breezy  sea! 

The  ships  are  bouniling  on  its  wave : 
Yet  what  are  all  its  pomps  to  me  ? 

The  exile  sees  it  but  his  grave. 

The  shore,  the  green  and  lovely  shore! 

I  see  the  crowding  lance  and  plume ; 
To  me  the  trumpet  thrills  no  more, 

The  banner  droops,  the  world  is 
gloom. 

A  shadow  sits  upon  my  youth, 
A  fever  feeds  upon  my  frame  ; 

Life,  what  art  thou  ? — one  great  un- 
truth ; 
Love,  what  art    thou? — one  bitter 


132        FAREWELL  OF  COLONNA. 

The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  sky, 

The  dew  is  ghttering  on  the  flower; 

So  sank  he,  when  one  tbrm  was  nigh 
That  made  the  world  an  angel  bower. 

Dreams  of  the  spirit !  where,  oh  where, 
Ye  thoughts  of  beauty,  are  ye  now  ? 

What  hand  has  planted  dark  despair 
In  this  proud  heart,  and  lofty  brow  ? 

It  is  the  hour.    I  hear  the  tone 
That  from  those  lips  of  roses  stole. 

I  see  the  diamond  eyes  that  shone 
With  kindred  music  to  the  soul. 

Come  forth,  thou  wondrous  talisman, 
Wrought  when  the  stars  were  veiled 
in  gloom, 

When  stooped  to  earth  the  crescent  wan, 
When  earth  was  but  a  wider  tomb  : 

When,  through  the  vapours  thick  and 
damp. 

That  filled  the  old  enchanter's  cell, 
Flashed  on  thy  form  the  mystic  lamp: 

Come  forth,  thou  angel  of  the  spell! 

If  throned  upon  yon  golden  cloud, 
Or  floating  on  yon  glassy  wave. 


FAREWELL  OF  COLONNA.  133 

Or  rushing  on  the  mountain  flood, 
Or  sporting  in  the  forest  cave  ; 

Bright  spirit  of  the  talisman — 

Come  !  by  thy  master's  mighty  name! 

I  hear  thy  wing  the  breezes  fan, 
I  see  thy  glance  of  starry  (lame. 

We  fly  ;  the  world  is  left  behind  ; 

Bright  spirit,  still  I  speed  with  thee. 
What  new-born   fragrance  loads   the 
wind, 
What  new-born  splendour  gilds  the 
sea! 

Now  on  me  burst  new  earth,  new  skies; 

From  sunny  hill  to  sylvan  shore 
Is  all  one  sheet  of  glorious  dyes, 

Of  purple  bloom,  of  sparkling  ore. 

Far  as  the  dazzled  eye  can  glance, 
Spreads  the  broad  land  one  glorious 
bower. 
Where  never  shook  the  gory  lance, 
Where  never  frowned  the  dungeon- 
tower. 

There,  in  the  myrtle-shaded  grot. 
Might  life  be  silent  as  the  stream 


134         FAREWELL  OF  COLO.VxXA. 

That  slumbers  through  its  crystal  vault, 
A  dream,  and  love  be  all  the  dream. 

Beneath  the  forest's  dew-dropt  spray, 
A  king,  the  grassy  turf  my  throne, 

Might  fond  existence  melt  away, 
Till  the  long,  lonely  dream  were 
done. 

Again  the  talisman  is  dark, 

JNight  and  the  world  are  come  again: 
I  hear  the  trump,  I  see  the  bark. 

Around  lie  agony  and  Spain. 

No,  the  high  prize  shall  yet  be  won ! 

Then  what  to  me  is  sea  or  shore, — 
The  eastern  or  the  western  sun  ? 

Thou  shall  be  mine,  sweet  Leonora 

MEilOR. 


135 


TfflRTEEN  YEARS  AGO. 

^Beggar  Girl.) 

Thirteen  years  ago,  mother, 

A  little  child  had  you  ; 
Its  limbs  were  light,  its  voice  was  soft. 

Its  eyes  were — oh,  so  blue! 
It  was  your  last,  your  dearest, 

And  you  said,  when  it  was  born, 
It  cheered  away  your  widowhood, 

And  made  you  iinlbrlorn. 

Thirteen  years  ago,  mother, 

You  loved  that  little  child, 
Although  its  temper  wayward  was. 

And  its  will  so  strong  and  wild  ; 
You  likened  it  to  the  free  bird, 

That  flies  to  the  woods  to  sing 
To  the  river  fair,  the  unfettered  air. 

And  many  a  pretty  thing. 

Thirteen  years  ago,  mother, 
The  world  was  in  its  youth : 

There  was  no  past ;  and  the  all  to  come 
Was  Hope,  and  Love,  and  Truth. 

The  dawn  came  dancing  onwards, 
The  day  was  ne'er  too  long, 


136  THIRTEEN  YEARS  AGO. 

And  every  night  had  a  fairy  sight, 
And  every  voice  a  song. 

Thirteen  years  ago,  mother, 

Your  child  was  an  infant  small, 
But    she    grew,    and    budded,    and 
bloomed  at  last, 
Like  the  rose  on  your  garden  wall. 
Ah,  the  rose  that  you  loved  was  trod 
on, — 
Your  child  was  lost  in  shame, 
And  never  since  hath  she  met  your 
smile, 
And  never  heard  your  name » 

( Widow.) 

Be  dumb,  thou  gipsy  slanderer, 

What  is  my  child  to  thee  ? 
What  are  my  troubles — what  my  jojrs? 

Here,  take  these  pence,  and  flee! 
If  thou  wilt  frame  a  story 

Which  speaks  of  me  or  mine, 
Go  say  you  found  me  singing,  girl, 

In  the  merry  sun-shine. 

{Beggar  Girl.) 

Thirteen  years  ago,  mother, 
The  sun  shone  on  your  wall : 


THIRTEEN  TEARS  AGO.  137 

He  shineth  now  through  the  winter's 
mist, 

Or  he  shineth  not  at  all. 
You  laughed  then,  and  5-our  little  one 

Ran  round  with  raerrj'  feet  : 
To-day  you  hide  your  eyes  in  tears 

And  i— am  in  the  street  I 

( Widow.) 

Ah,  God  I — what  frightful  spasm 

Runs  piercing  through  my  heartl 
It  cannot  be  my  bright  one, 

So  pale — so  worn  ; — Depart! 
Depart — yet  no,  come  hither  I 

Here  !  hide  thee  in  ray  breast. 
I  see  thee  again, — a^aiv  ! — and  I 

Am  once  more  with  the  blessed . 

{Beggar  Girl. 

Ay, — gaze  ! — 'Tis  I,  indeed,  mother, 

Your  loved, — your  lost, — your  child  ! 
The  rest  o'  the  bad  world  scorn  me, 

As  a  creature  all  defiled  : 
But  you — you'll  take  me  home,  mother  ? 

And  I — (tho'  the  grave  seems  nigh,) 
I'll  bear  up  still ;  and  for  your  sake, 

I'll  struggle — not  to  die! 

B.C. 


138 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  LTFE. 

Day    dawned.    Within    a   curtained 

room, 
Filled,  to  faintness,  with  perfume, 
A  lady  lay,  at  point  of  doom. 

Day  closed.    A  child  had  seen  the 

light: 
But  for  the  lady,  fair  and  hright, 
She  rested  in  undreaming  night! 

Springs  came.    The  lady's  grave  was 

green ; 
And,  near  it,  oftentimes  was  seen 
A  gentle  boy,  with  thoughtful  mien. 

Years  fled.    He  wore  a  manly  face, 
And  struggled  in  the  world  s  rough 

race. 
And  won,  at  last,  a  lofty  place. 

And  then — he  died! — Behold,  before 

Humanity's  poor  sum  and  story  ; — 
Life,— Death,— and   (all   that  is  of) 
Glory.  B.  C 


139 


ON  THE  TOMB  OF  ABELARD 
AND  ELOISA. 

O'er  this  pale  stone  let  Love  and 
Beauty  weep, 

For  here  the  wrecks  of  mighty  passion 
sleep. 

Here,  where  no  jealous  pang,  no  tyrant 
hand. 

Can  break,  O  Love,  thy  sweet  and  bit- 
ter band, 

Lies  Abclard's  by  Eloisa's  heart; 

One  to  the  last,  not  even  in  death  to 
part! 

Here,  where  the  wounded  spirit  bleeds 
no  more, 

Their  pilgrimage  of  life  and  love  is  o'er. 


140 
THE  EUTHANASIA. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  BIBLE. 

"  Vanity  of  vanities."~SoZomon. 

What  art  thou,  Life  ?    The  saint  and 

sage 
Hath  left  it  written  on  this  page, 
That  thou  art  nothing — dust,  a  breath, 
A  bubble  broke  by  chance  or  death; 
A  sun-ray  on  a  rushing  stream. 
A  thought,  a  vanity,  a  dream. 

And  truly  hath  he  told  the  tale  : 
Bear  witness  cell,  and  cloister  pale, 
Where    loveliness,    and   vvealtli,   and 

birth, 
Have  sunk  from  sights  and  sounds  of 

earth, 
And  chilled  the  heart,  and  veiled  the 

eye. 
And,  daily  dying,  learned  to  die. 

Yet,  Life,  thou'rt  given  for   mighty 
things ; 
plume  the  infant  angel's  wings ; 


THE  LONELY  HEART.  141 

To  bid  our  waywardness  of  heart, 
Like  Mary,  choose  the  better  part ; 
To  watch,  and  weep  our  guilt  away, 
"  To-day,  while  yet  'tis  called  to-day." 

If  trials  come.  Eternal  God  ! 
By  thee  the  vale  of  thorns  was  trod. 
If  death  be  nigh,  shall  man  repine 
To  bear  the  pangs  that  once  were  thine  ? 
To  bleed  where  once  thy  heart  was 

riven, 
And  follow  from  the  Cross  to  Heaven ! 
Aim. 


THE  LONELY  HEART. 

BY  SARAH  STICKNEY. 

They  tell  me  I  am  happy — and 

I  try  to  think  it  true  ; 
They  say  I  have  no  cause  to  weep, 

My  sorrows  are  so  few ; 
That  in  the  wilderness  we  tread, 

Mine  is  a  favoured  lot ; 
My  petty  griefs  all  fantasies, 

Would  I  but  heed  them  not. 


142  THE  LONELY  HEART. 

It  may  be  so ;  the  cup  of  life 

Has  many  a  bitter  draught, 
Which  those  who  drink  with  silent  lips 

Have  smiled  on  while  they  quaffed 
It  may  be  so  ;  I  cannot  tell 

What  others  have  to  bear, 
But  sorry  should  I  be  to  give 

Another  heart  my  share. 

They  bid  me  to  the  festive  board 

I  go  a  smiling  guest, 
Their  laughter  and  their  revelry 

Are  torture  to  my  breast ; 
They  call  for  rnusic,  and  there  comev 

Some  old  famihar  strain  ; 
1  dash  away  the  starting  tear. 

Then  turn — and  smile  again 

But  oh !  my  heart  is  wandering 

Back  to  my  father's  home. 
Back  to  my  sisters  at  their  play, 

The  meadows  in  their  bloom, 
The  blackbird  on  the  scented  thorn, 

The  murmuring  of  the  stream. 
The  sounds  upon  the  evening  breeze, 

Like  voices  in  a  dream  ; 

The  watchful  eyes  that  never  more 
Shall  gaze  upon  my  brow, 


OUR  OWN  FIRE-SIDE.  143 

The  smiles — Oh !  cease  that  melody, 

I  cannot  bear  it  now  ! 
And  heed  not  when  the  stranger  sighs, 

Nor  mariv  the  tears  that  start, 
There  can  be  no  companionship 

For  loneliness  of  heart ! 


OUR  OWN  FIRE-SIDE. 

BY  JOHN  CLARE. 

O0R  fire-side's  easy  chair — 

Is  there  any  place  beside 
Where  such  pleasant  cheer  we  share  ? 

Where  the  hours  so  gently  glide  ? 
Though  but  humble  be  the  fare 

That  Want's  daily  toils  provide, 
Dainty's  cup  can  ne'er  compare 
With  the  joy  that  sparkles  there, 

By  our  own  fire-side. 

Would  you  meet  with  genuine  Mirth 
Where  she  comes  a  willing  guest? 

'Tis  the  quiet  social  hearth, 
Well  I  wot,  she  loveth  best; 

Where  the  little  ones,  at  play, 
Prattle  by  their  mother's  side. 


144  OUR  OWN  FIRE-SIDE. 

And  the  elder,  mildly  gay, 
Laugh  and  sing  the  hours  away 
By  their  own  fire-side. 

An  honest  man,  though  poor, 

Yet  may  feel  an  honest  pride, 
While  he  tells  his  troubles  o'er 

Where  his  heart  hath  nought  to  hide. 
He  who  falls  from  high  estate 

No  great  grievance  hath  to  bide, 
If  he  calmly  meets  his  fate. 
Where  Content  and  Quiet  wait 

By  the  rustic  fire-side. 

They  who  love  us  till  we  die, 

VVho  through  troubles  have   been 
tried, 
Who  will  watch  the  closing  eye 

When  all  grows  cold  beside — 
Where  shall  friends  like  these  be  found, 

Search  we  earth  and  ocean  wide  ? 
Where,  on  all  this  weary  round. 
Save  that  hallowed  spot  of  ground 

Called  our  own  fire-side  ? 

In  my  chimney's  cozy  nook 
Thus  I  chant  my  rustic  lay, 

'Neath  the  rafters,  brown  with  smoke 
Curling  up  for  many  a  day. 


STANZAS  TO  145 

Wealth  may  boast  his  splendid  hall, 

Pomp  and  luxury  and  pride, 
Sculptured  roof  and  pictured  wall — 
There's  no  comfort  in  them  all 
Like  my  own  lire-side. 


STANZAS  TO  . 

BY  ELIZA  WALKER. 

I  AM  not  gay  when  thou  art  here ; 

My  trembling  heart  hath  joy  too  deep-, 
A  feeling  strange,  half  bliss,  half  fear. 

So  moves  my  soul,  1  fain  would  weep. 

With  earnest  gaze  I  read  thy  face — 
As  eastern  Magi  searched  the  sky. 

And  sought  its  starry  depths  to  trace 
For  promise  of  their  destiny. 

I  ask  thine  eyes,  thy  lip,  thy  brow, 
If  type  of  change  is  written  there; 

If  what  looks  pure  and  noble  now 
Shall  bring  my  trusting  heart  despair 

Vain  fears,  away  !— still,  still  I'll  cling 
With  strong  undoubting  faith  to  thee 
10 


146  UP,  MARY,  LOVK. 

My  hopes,  my  joys,  my  sorrows  bring 
To  thy  fond  bosom's  sanctuary ! 


SONG....VF,  MARY,  LOVE  ! 

Up,  Mary,  love,  up  ! — for  the  breeze  is 

awake. 
And  the  mists  are  retiring  in  wreaths 

from  the  lake : 
At  the  lark's  early  melody,  joyous  and 

shrill, 
Leaps  the  stag  from  liis  lair,  and  the 

goat  on  the  hill. 

Our  boats  are  all  ready,  their  streamers 

displayed. 
And  the  boatmen's  blithe  carol  is  heard 

in  the  giade ; 
Our  friends  are  assembled — the  gallant, 

the  kind  : 
But  the  fairest  and  dearest  still  lingers 

behind. 

In   yon   copee-wavmg   isle,   ere    the 

closing  of  eve, 
Fair  cheeks  will  be  glowing,  young 

hearts  will  believe , 


UP,  MARY,  LOVE.  147 

For  a  spirit  of  love  and  delight  is  abroad, 
And  sheds  its  sweet  magic  o'er  moun- 
tain and  flood. 

'Tis  sweet  o'er  the  waters  the  bugle  to 

hear, 
With  the  oar's  mingled  dash  falling 

faint  on  the  ear ; 
To  view,  far  beneath  us,  the  glittering 

throng, 
And  catch  the  wild  sounds  of  the  dance 

and  the  song. 

But  sweeter  by  far  from  the  revel  to 
stray, 

To  cheat  the  mad  whirl  of  the  thought- 
less and  gay ; 

By  the  lake's  lonely  margin  our  vows 
to  repeat, 

And  forget  all  besides  in  our  blissful 
retreat. 

And  sweeter  than  all,  in  the  slumbers 

of  night 
To  recall  in  soft  visions  those  hours  of 

delight. — 
Such  joys,  and  ten  thousand  besides, 

wouldst  thou  prove, 
Rise— join  us — and  bless  us,  oh  Mary, 

my  love ! 

J.  F.  W.  H. 


148 
BE  HEAVEN  MY  STAY. 

BY  JOHN  RAMSAY. 

In  all  the  changes  here  below 
Of  transient  weal  or  trying  woe 
It  may  be  given  my  soul  to  know, — 
Be  Heaven  my  stay. 

When  the  faint  heart  would  fail  for  fear, 
No  human  eye  to  pity  near, 
No  hand  to  wipe  the  bitter  tear, — 
Be  Heaven  my  stay. 

When  I  must  bear  the  worldling's  scorn, 
Derided  for  my  lot  forlorn, 
E'en  of  itself  but  hardly  borne, — 
Be  Heaven  my  stay. 

When  of  the  friends  whom  once  I  knew, 
Around  me  [  can  find  but  few. 
And  doubts  arise  if  these  be  true, — 
Be  Heaven  ray  stay. 

When  days  of  health  and  youth  are 

flown, 
My  path  with  faded  roses  strown, 


BE  HEAVEN  MY  STAY.  149 

And  thorns  are  all  I  find  my  own, — 
Be  Heaven  my  stay. 

When  full  of  tossingson  my  bed, 
I  cannot  rest  my  weary  head, 
Scared  with  dim  visions  of  the  dead,— 
Be  Heaven  my  stay. 

When  sorely  chastened  for  my  sins, 
And  pleasure  ends  while  grief  begins, 
And  agony  no  guerdon  wins, — 
Be  Heaven  my  stay. 

When  all  in  vain  I  strive  to  brave 
The  gloom  of  Jordan's  swelling  wave. 
And  hand  of  mortal  cannot  save, — 
Be  Heaven  my  stay. 

When  prayer  no  longer  will  prevail, 
When  praise  sinks  to  a  trembling  wail, 
When  faith  itself  begins  to  fail, — 
Be  Heaven  my  stay ! 

Aberdeen. 


150 
MADEIRA. 

BY  L.  E.  L. 

On  the  deep  and  quiet  sea 
The  day  was  fast  declining; 

In  the  far  empurpled  sky 
A  few  bright  stars  were  shining. 

And    the  moon   looked  through  the 
clouds 
Which  round  her  path  were  sweep- 
ing, 
Like  some  lone  and  gentle  one 
Who  Love's  vigil  late  is  keeping. 

Anchored  offtiiat  beauteous  coast, 

A  noble  ship  is  lying, 
While  above  her  stately  mast 

Are  English  colours  flying. 

For  the  shore  is  now  in  sight, 
And  the  porfume  of  its  flowers, 

And  the  odour  of  its  vines, 

Make  sweet  the  twilight  hours. 

There  is  a  silence  in  that  ship 
Each  step  is  softly  taken, 


MADEIRA.  151 

Am  around  some  dear  one's  bed, 
Whose  sleep  they  feared  to  waken. 

But  it  is  not  sleep,  now  rocked 
By  the  heaving  of  the  billow ; 

But  a  darker  slumber  flits 
Around  a  weary  pillow. 

They  have  brought  her  from  the  land 
Where  her  parents'  ashes  slumber  ; 

They  have  brought  her  to  the  south, 
But  her  days  have  told  their  num- 
ber. 

Though  the  vault  that  bears  her  name 

Will  not  open  for  another, 
And  she  is  the  only  child 

That  sleeps  not  by  her  mother ; 

Yet  the  loveliest  and  the  last 
Of  that  ancient  line  is  failing ; 

Like  those  evanescent  hues 
In  the  shadowy  west  now  paling. 

She  is  laid  upon  the  deck, 

For  the  cool  land  breeze  is  blowing ; 
But  the  last  faint  warmth  of  life 

Fast  from  her  cheek  is  going. 


152  MADEIRA. 

And  her  loosened  long  black  hair 
Is  sweeping  darkly  round  her, 

As  if  it  were  the  solemn  pall 
That  already  bound  her. 

But  the  sweet  pale  mouth  was  calm, 
And  the  eyes  were  meekly  closing ! 

And  upon  the  marble  cheek 
Was  the  silken  lash  reposing ; — 

Softly  as  a  little  child 

Sleeps  on  its  mother's  bosom, 
Sweetly  as  a  tender  flower 

Closes  its  languid  blossom. 

There  were  eyes  unused  to  weep, 
Around  her  dim  with  weeping ; 

Yet  death  seemed  not  for  tears, 
'Twas  so  like  sweetest  sleeping. 

Not  beneath  the  deep  sea  waves, 
Vexed  with  perpetual  motion, 

Neither  in  the  sparry  caves 
Of  the  tumultuous  ocean. 

Did  that  youthful  maiden  rest — 
She  had  more  fit  entombing 

In  that  balmy  southern  isle, 

With  its  summer's  sunny  blooming. 


LOVR.  153 

There  the  moon  will  shed  her  light, 
There    the    watching   stars    bum 
clearer ; 

For  never  yet  did  earth  enshrine 
One  fairer  or  one  dearer. 


LOVE. 

BY  CALDER  CAMPBELL. 

Oh  !  Love  I — true  Love  ! — what  alters 

thee  ?    Not  all 
The  changes  that  flit  o'er  the  heart 

of  man? 
Thou  art  the  fruit  that  ripens — not  to 

fall 
The   flower   that  lives  beyond  the 

summer's  span  ; 
The    clinging    plant    that    props  the 

crumbling  wall  — 
The  vestal  fire,  which  braves  the 

winter's  ban  : 
Nor  is  extinguished  by  the  sleet  or 

snow 
Of  human  cruelty,  and  crime,  and  woe  ! 


154  LOVE. 

Thou  art  the  shadow  of  the  heart,  that 

tends 
Our   footsteps  through   bright   sun- 
shine or  black  shade ; 
Cold  chills  thee  not — indifference  but 

amends — 
Want  cannot  kill  thee,  suffering  not 

dissuade ; 
Thou  art  Life's  food,  the  morsel  Mercy 

lends 
To  nourish,  when  all  other  banquets 

fade: 
Yea !  all  conspires  this  maxim's  truth 

to  prove — 
Life  is  not  where  we  live,  but  where  we 

love! 

With  me  love  is  a  vision  of  the  mind, 
A  dream  that  dazzles  when  I  do  not 
sleep ; 
A  phantom,  faintly  seen  and  undefined ; 
An  opiate,  giving  thoughts  ecstatic, 
deep, 
A  holy  spirit,  in  a  tomb  esnhrined. 
O'er  which  humanity  doth  wail  and 
weep: 
For  purest  love  hath  ever  on  its  wings 
A   blend    of  earthly  and    unearthly 
things ! 


155 


SONG. 

BY  H.  F.  CHORLEY,  ESQ. 

Friend,  whose  smile  had  ever  power 

From  its  chains  my  soul  to  free, 
Making  all  a  summer  bower 

What  were  desert,  save  for  thee , 
By  the  love  I  kept  so  long 
All    unchanged    through    scorn   and 
wrong, 
For  thee  alone — 
Grieve  not  thou  for  days  of  yore 
And  remember  me  no  more 
When  1  am  gone. 

Thou  wilt  weep,  I  know,  to  see 
Yonder  picture  on  the  wall ; 
Yonder  dulcimer  to  thee 

Often  will  my  song  recall  : 
Hide  them  both  in  some  dark  cell. 
Whence  may  come  no  saddening  spell 

Of  glance  or  tone 
Fading  memories  to  restore  : 
O  remember  me  no  more 

When  I  am  gone. 


156 


THE  SNOWt 

SY  CHARLES  SWAIN,  ESQ. 

The  silvery  Snow ! — the  silvery  Snow ! 

Like  a  glory  it  falls  on  the  fields  below ; 

And  the  trees  with  their  diamond 
branches  appear 

Like  the  fairy  growth  of  some  magical 
sphere ; 

While  soft  as  music,  and  wild  as  white, 

It  glitters  and  floats  in  the  pale  moon- 
light, 

And  spangles  the  river  and  fount  as 
they  flow ; 

Oh !  who  has  not  loved  the  bright,  beau- 
tiful snow ! 

The  silvery  snow,  and  the  crinkling 

frost — 
How  merry  we  go  when  the  Earth 

seems  lost; 
Like  spirits  that  rise  from  the  dust  of 

Time, 
To  live  in  a  purer  and  holier  clime ! 
A  new  creation  without  a  stain — 
Lovely  as  Heaven's  own  pure  domain 


DEATH  OF  RACHEL.  157 

But,  ah!  like  the  many  fair  hopes  of 

our  years, 
It  glitters  awhile — and  then  melts  into 


THE  DEATH  OF  RACHEL. 

BY  T.  K.  HERVEY,  ESQ. 

She  felt — in  many  a  patient  tear, 
And  yearning  hope,  and  anxious  fear, 
And  tinge  of  matron  shame,  tliat  lies 
On  the  frail  cheek  and  languid  eyes — 
Through  all  its  change  of  silent  woe, 
The  curse  of  Eve — a  mother's  throe  .' 
Then  died — without  one  hour  to  share 
The  hard-earned  due  of  woman's  race, 
The  outstretched  hand,  the  voiceless 

prayer. 
The  infant's  weak,  but  dear  embrace  ! 
Oh!  if  there  be  a  care  below, 
One  human  thought,  uncharged  with 

sin, 
'Tis  the  self-yielding,  pious  glow 
With  which  a  mother's  toils  begin! 


158  DEATH  OF  RACHEL. 

The  Patriarch  stood  beside  her  bed, 
And  love's  unwearied  vigil  kept, 
Till  love  was  watching  o'er  the  dead- 
Then   bowed  his  stricken  head,  and 

wept! 
He  placed  the  leafy  chaplet  o'er 
Her  breast ;  and  touched,  with  painful 

kiss, 
The  clammy  lips  that  sprang  no  more 
With  dewy  warmth  to  welcome  his. 

They  raised  a  pillar  o'er  her  grave, 
A  simple  mass  of  naked  stone, 
Hewn  with  such  art  as  sorrow  gave, 
E'er  haughty  sculpture  yet  was  Imown 
There  oft  the  fiery  Gentile  trod, 
But  did  not  crush  the  flowery  sod ; 
And  childhood,  as  it  wandered  near. 
Gazed  with  uncertain  look  of  fear, 
And  checked  its  noisy  sport  awhile, 
To  whisper  by  the  mossy  pile ! 


159 
MEMORY. 

INSCRIPTION  ON  AN  URN. 
From  the  French. 

Of  all  the  early  hours  I  knew, 
Hours  that  so  sweetly,  swiftly  flew, 
Why  does  one  only  thing  remain 
To  turn  the  lovely  past  to  pain— 
'Tis  Memory ! 

When    all    my  hopes,   like    dreams, 

passed  by. 
Why  didst  not  thou  too,  Memory,  fly — 
Fly  from  my  heart,  nor  thus  remain 
To  turn  hope,  heart,  and  life  to  pain, 
Oh  Memory  I 


160 
INVOCATION  TO  DREAMS. 

BY  MRS.  HEMANS. 

Written  in  early  Youth. 

The  clouds  of  night,  the   wings  of 
sleep, 
Are    brooding   now  o'er   hill   and 
heath ; 
Too  startling  for  the  silence  deep, 

Were  music's  faintest  breath. 
Descend,  ye  visions,  from  aerial  bowers 
To  glorify  your  own  soft  silent  hours. 

In  hope  or  fear,  in  toil  or  pain, 

The  weary  day  for  man  hath  passed  ; 
Now,  dreams  of  bliss,  be  yours  to  reign, 

Now  let  your  spells  be  cast ! 
Steal  from  lone  hearts  the  pang,  sad 

eyes  the  tear. 
And  lift  the  veil  that  hides  a  brighter 
sphere. 

Oh !  bear  your  kindliest  balm  to  thos^ 
Who  fondly,  vainly,  mourn  the  d'laa ; 

To  them  that  world  of  peace  di?*»lr^e, 
Where  the  pure  soul  is  fled 


INVOCATION  TO  DREAMS.         161 

Where  love,  immortal  in  his  native 

clime, 
Shall  fear  no  pang  from  fate,  no  blight 

from  time. 

Hat'te !  to  his  loved,  his  distant  land, 

On  your  light  wings  the  exile  bear ; 
To  feel  once  more  his  heart  expand 

In  his  own  mountain  air — 
Hear  the   wild    echo's   well    known 

strains  repeat, 
And  bless  each  note  as  Heaven's  own 
music  sweet 

But  oh !  with  fancy's  brightest  ray, 
Kind  dreams !  the  bard's  repose  il- 
lume ; 
Bid  forms  of  heaven  around  him  play, 

And  bowers  of  Eden  bloom. 
He  needs  those  glimpses  of  his  native 

skies, 
To  light  him  on  through  life's  realities. 

No  voice  is  on  the  air  of  night, 
Through  folded  leaves  no  murmurs 
creep; 
Nor  star  nor  moonbeam's  dewy  light, 
Falls  on  the  brow  of  sleep. 
11 


lo'i  THE  NAUTILUS. 

Descend,    oh    visions !    from    aerial 

bowers, 
Dim,  silent,  solemn,  are  your  chosen 

hours. 


THE  NAUTILUS. 

BY  MARY  HOWETT. 

Like  an  ocean  breeze  afloat, 
In  a  little  pearly  boat, 
Pearl  within  and  round  about. 
And  a  silken  streamer  out, 
Over  the  sea,  over  the  sea, 
Merrily,  merrily,  saileth  he  I 

Not  for  battle,  noi  for  pelf, 
But  to  pleasure  his  own  self. 
Sails  he  on  for  many  a  league, 
Nor  knoweth  hunger  nor  fatigue  : 
Past  many  a  rock,  past  many  a  shore. 
Nor  shifts  a  sail,  nor  lifts  an  oar. 
Oh!  the  joy  of  sailing  thus — 
Like  a  brave  old  Nautilus. 

Much  he  knows,  the  northern  whaler 
More  the  Great  Pacific  sailor  j 


THE  NAUTILUS.  163 

And  Phoenicians,  old  and  grey, 
In  old  times  knew  more  than  they ; 
But,  oh  I  daring  voyager  small, 
More  thou  knowest  than  they  all  I 

Thou  didst  laugh  at  sun  and  breeze 
On  the  new-created  seas : 
Thou  wast  with  the  dragon  broods 
In  the  old  sea  solitudes. 
Sailing  in  the  new-made  light 
With  the  curled  up  Ammonite  ! 
Thou  survived  the  awful  shock 
That  turned  the  ocean-bed  to  rock,* 
And  changed  its  myriad  living  swarms 
To  the  marble's  veined  forms — 
Fossil  scrolls  that  tell  of  change. 

Thou  wast  there  !— thy  little  boat, 
Airy  voyager,  kept  afloat 
O'er  the  waters  wild  and  dismal. 
O'er  the  yawning  gulfs  abyssmal; 
Amid  wreck  and  overturning — 
Rock  imbedding,  heaving,  burning! 
'Mid  the  tumult  and  the  stir, 
Thou,  most  ancient  mariner. 


*  The  little  Nautilus  is  found  imbedded  with  tho 
fossil  remains  of  those  sea-crocodiles,  and  dragon- 
like  creatures  which  have  ceased  to  exist. 


164  THE  NAUTILUS. 

In  that  pearly  boat  of  thine, 
Sat'st  upon  the  troubled  brine  ! 

Theri  thou  saw  the  settling  ocean 
Calming  from  its  dark  commotion ; 
And,  less  mighty  than  the  first, 
Forth  a  lisw  creation  burst ! — 

Saw  each  crested  billow  rife 
With  ten  thousand  forms  of  life ; 
Saw  the  budding  sea-weed  grovr 
In  the  tranquil  deeps  below, 
And  within  the  ocean-mines 
Hourly,  branching  corallines. 

Thou  didst  know  the  sea,  ere  mai 

His  first  voyage  had  began  ; 

All  the  world  hadst  sailed  about, 

Ere  America  was  found  out — 

Ere  Ulysses  and  his  men 

Came  to  Ithaca  again. 

Thou  wast  sailing  o'er  the  sea, 

Brave  old  voyager,  merrily, 

While  within  the  forest  grew 

The  tree  that  was  the  first  canoe. 

Daring  circumnavigator, 

Would  thou  wert  thine  own  narrat(» 


165 


THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERDESS 

BY  MISS  AGNES  STRICKLAND. 

I  KNEW  a  little  cottage  maid, 

An  orphan  from  her  birth  ; 
And  yet  she  might  be  truly  called 

The  happiest  child  on  earth. 

As  guileless  as  the  gentle  lambs 
That  fed  beneath  her  care, 

Her  mind  was  like  a  summer  stream, 
Unruffled,  pure,  and  fair. 

'Midst  all  the  hardships  of  her  lot. 
Her  looks  were  calm  and  meek; 

And  cheerfully  the  rose  of  health 
Was  blooming  on  her  cheek. 

The    merry  sports  which    childhood 
loves, 
■  To  her  were  never  known ; 
Yet  Ellen,  in  her  lonely  hours, 
Had  pleasures  of  her  own. 

She  loved  her  peaceful  flock  to  lead 
To  some  sweet  wooded  hill, 


166  LITTLE  SHEPHERDESS. 

That  overhung  the  flowery  plain 
And  softly-gliding  rill : 

And,  couched  amidst  the  blossomed 
heath, 

From  that  delightful  spot, 
To  mark  the  distant  village  spire. 

And  many  a  well-known  cot  : 

Whence  watched  she  oft  the  curling 
smoke 

In  misty  wreaths  ascend, 
And,  on  the  blue  horizon's  verge, 

With  loftier  vapours  blend. 

She  heard  a  music  in  the  sigh 
Of  streams  and  wavering  trees. 

And  sang  her  artless  songs  of  joy 
To  every  passing  breeze. 

She  made  acquaintance  with  the  birds 

That  gayly  fluttered  nigh  ; 
And  e'en  the  lowly  insect  tribes 

Were  precious  in  her  eye. 

She  saw  a  glory  in  each  cloud, 

A  moral  in  each  flower ; 
That  all  to  her  young  heart  proclaimed 

Their  great  Creator's  power. 


LITTLE  SHEPHERDESS.  167 

Nor  looked  the  little  maid  in  vain 
Some  kindly  glance  to  meet- 
One  lowly  friend  was  ever  near, 
Reposing  at  her  feet : — 

A  friend  whose  fond  and  generous  love 
Misfortune  ne'er  estranged  ; 

In  sunshine  and  in  storm  the  same 
Through  weal  and  woe  unchanged. 

The  dreary  heath,  or  barren  moor, 

Or  park,  or  pasture  fair, 
Are  ail  alike  to  faithful  Tray, 

If  Ellen  is  but  there. 

His  joys  are  centred  ^11  in  her ; 

His  world  's  the  lonely  wild, 
Where  he  attends,  the  livelong  day, 

That  solitary  child. 


168 


THE  FESTA  OF  MADONNA  DEI 
FIORI. 


They  gathered  in  that  holy  place, 

A  young  and  lovely  band, 
With  banners  wrought  with   sacred 
signs, 

And  flowers  in  each  hand. 

It  was  a  summer  festival 

Worthy  a  summer  sky, 
That  brought  the   fragrant  and  the 
fair 

Upon  that  shrine  to  die. 

Many  a  little  foot  had  been 

Amid  the  early  dew, 
While  fresh  the  odour  to  each  leaf, 

Fresh  colour  to  each  hue. 

And  many  a  little  brow  had  watched 
For  weeks  some  favourite  flower. 

Proud  and  impatient  of  its  growth 
For  this  auspicious  hour. 


FESTA  OF  MADONNA  DEI  FIORI.    169 

And  many  a  little  heart  had  linked 

Its  deepest,  dearest  prayer, 
And  the  fulfilment  of  its  hope 

With  the  sweet  offerings  there. 

One  bore  a  banner,  where  was  wrought 

The  Virgin  and  her  Son — 
Her  younger  sister  and  herself 

The  broidery  begun. 

But  she  who  held  the  banner  now 

Went  on  her  way  alone  ; 
No  sister  shared  the  sacred  task: — 

Her  sister's  task  was  done ! 

As  yet  the  grass  was  scarcely  grown 
Upon  that  bright  young  head  ; 

As  yet  the  tears  were  warm  that  fell 
Above  the  early  dead. 

Poor  child  !  how  pale  and  sorrowful 

She  takes  her  silent  way  ! 
A  prayer  for  the  departed  one 

Is  on  her  lips  to-day. 

But  foremost  come  two  fairy  ones 
With  dark  eyes  filled  with  light, 

The  very  roses  that  they  bear 
Can  scarcely  be  more  bright. 


170  FESTA  OF  MADONNA  DEI  FlORl. 

The  youngest  bears  a  single  plant, 
One  that  herself  has  nursed  ; 

A  far  exotic  from  the  South, 
The  fairest  and  the  first. 

And  they  have  tender  hopes  and  fearp 

To  claim  the  votive  vow ; 
And  parents,  for  whose  precious  sake 

Their  prayers  are  ready  now. 

Blest  be  their  lovely  pilgrimage, 
Although  they  seek  a  shrine 

Hallowed  by  a  believing  faith 
Not  unto  us  divine  ! 

No  banners  in  our  humbler  church 
Are  waved,  no  flowers  are  strown; 

The  sacrifice  we  offer  up 
Must  in  the  heart  be  shown. 

And  that  is  much  if  truly  given  : 

Our  vanity  and  pride, 
Our  empty  hopes,  our  fair  deceits, 

Must  there  be  all  denied. 

Those  children,  with  an  earnest  faith 
Are  offering  early  flowers  ; 

Methinks  their  simple  truth  and  love 
Might  teach  and  strengthen  ours. 


171 


THE  DyiNG  BOY  TO  THE 

SLOE-BLOSSOM. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  CORN  LAW 
RHYMES." 

Before  thy  leaves,  thou  com'st  once 
more. 
White  blossom  of  the  sloe  ! 
Thy  leaves  will  come  as  heretofore; 
But  this  poor  heart,  its  troubles  o'er, 
Will  then  lie  low. 

A  month  at  least  before  thy  time 

Thou  com'st,  pale  flower,  to  me  ; 
For  well  thou  knovvest  the  frosty  rime 
Will  blast  me  ere  my  vernal  prime, 
No  more  to  be. 

Why  here  in  winter  ?    No  storm  lours 

O'er  nature's  silent  shroud  : 
But    blithe     larks    meet    the    sunny 

showers. 
High     o'er    the    doomed    untimely 
flowers, 
In  beauty  bowed ! 


172  THE  DYING  nOY 

Sweet  violets  in  the  budding  grove 

Peep  wiiere  the  glad  waves  run ; 

The  wren  below,  the  thrush  above, 

Of  bright  to-morrow's  joy  and  love, 

Sing  to  the  sim. 

And  where  the  rose-leaf,  ever  bold, 

Hears  bees  chant  hymns  to  God, 
The  breeze-bowed  palm,  mossed  o'er 

with  gold, 
Smiles  on  the  well,  in  summer  cold, 
And  daisied  sod. 


But  thou,  pale  blossom,  thou  art  come, 

And  flowers  in  winter  blow, 
To  tell  me  that  the  worm  makes  room 
For  me,  her  brother,  in  the  tomb, 
And  thinks  me  slow. 

For  as  the  rainbow  of  the  dawn, 

Foretells  an  eve  of  tears — 
A  sunbeam  on  the  saddened  lawn, 
I  smile,  and  w*^ep  to  be  withdrawn 
In  early  years 

Thy  leaves  will  come! — but  songful 
spring 
Will  see  no  leaf  of  mine;  • 


TO  THE  SLOE-BLOSSOM.  173 

Her  bells  will  ring,  her  bridemaids 

sing, 
When  my  young  leaves  are  withering, 
Where  no  suns  shine. 

Oh,  might   I    breathe    morn's    dewy 
breath, 
When  June's  sweet  Sabbaths  chime! 
But  thine  before  my  time,  O  Death, 
I  go  where  no  flower  blossometh, 
Before  my  time. 

Even  as  the  blushes  of  the  mon\ 

Vanish,  and  long  ere  noon 
The  dew-drop  dieth  on  the  thorn, 
So  fair  I  bloomed  :  and  was  I  bom 
To  die  as  soon  ? 

To  love  my  mother,  and  to  die, 

To  perish  in  my  bloom. 
Is  this  my  briefj  sad  history  ? 
A  tear  dropped  from  a  mother's  eye 
Into  the  tomb! 

He  lived  and  loved  will  sorrow  say ; 

By  early  sorrow  tried  ; 
He  smiled,  he  sighed,  he  passed  away 
His  life  was  but  an  April  day, — 
He  loved  and  died ' 


174  THE  DYING  BOY. 

My  mother  smiles — then  turns  away; 

But  turns  away  to  weep  : 
They  whisper  round  me,— what  they 

say 
I  need  not  hear ;  for  in  the  clay 
I  soon  must  sleep. 

Oh,  love  is  sorrow !  sad  it  is 

To  be  both  tried  and  true ! 
1  ever  trembled  in  my  bliss ; 
Now  there  are  farewells  in  a  kiss,— 
They  sigh  adieu. 

But  woodbines  flaunt  when  bluebells 
fade 
Where  Don  reflects  the  skies ; 
And  many  a  youth  in  Shire  cliflS'  shade 
Will  ramble  wh&re  my  boyhood  played. 
Though  Alfred  dies ! 

Then  panting  woods  the  breeze  <vrll 
feel, 
And  bowers,  as  heretofore, 
Beneath  their  load  of  roses  reel ; 
But  I  through  woodbined  lanes  shall 
steal 
No  more,  no  more  I 

Well,  lay  me  by  my  brother's  side, 
Where  late  we  stood  and  wept ,- 


THE  mother's  hope.  175 

For  I  was  stricken  when  he  died, — 
I  felt  the  arrow  as  he  sighed 
His  last,  and  slept. 


THE  MOTHER'S  HOPE. 

BY  LAMAN  BLANCHARD. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  oar  infancr. —  f-Cordnoorth. 

Is  there,  when  the  winds  are  singing 
In  the  happy  summer-time — 

When  the  raptured  air  is  ringing 

With    earth's    music    heaveu-ward 
springing, 
Forest-chirp,  and  village-chime? — 

Is  there,  of  the  sounds  that  float 

Minglingly,  a  single  note 

Half  so  sweet,  and  clear,  and  wild, 

As  the  laughter  of  a  child  ? 

Listen  !  and  be  now  delighted. 

Morn  hath  touched  her  golden  strings; 
Eartli  and  sky  their  vows  have  plighted, 
Life  and  light  are  reunited, 

Amid  countless  caroUings : 


176         THE  mother's  hope. 

Yet,  delicious  as  they  are, 
There's  a  sound  that's  sweeter  far- 
One  that  makes  the  heart  rejoice 
More  than  all, — the  human  voice  ! 

Organ,  finer,  deeper,  clearer, 

Though  it  be  a  stranger's  tone  ; 
Than  the  winds  or  waters  dearer, 
More  enchanting  to  the  hearer, 

For  It  answereth  his  own. 
But  of  all  its  witching  words, 
Sweeter  than  the  songs  of  birds 
Those  are  sweetest,  bubbling  wild 
Through  the  laughter  of  a  child. 

Harmonies  frou.  time-touched  towers 

Haunted  strains  from  rivulets, 
Hum  of  bees  among  the  flowers. 
Rustling  leaves,  and  silver  showers— 

These,  ere  long,  the  ear  forgets 
But  in  mine  there  is  a  sound 
Ringing  du  the  whole  year  round  ; 
Heart-deep  laughter  that  I  heard. 
Ere  my  child  could  speak  a  word. 

Ah!  'twas  heard  by  ear  far  purer, 

Fondlier  formed  to  catch  the  strain- 
Ear  of  one  whose  love  is  surer  ; 


THE  mother's  hope.  177 

Hers,  the  mother,  the  endurer 

Of  the  deepest  share  of  pain  ; 
Hers  the  deepest  bliss,  to  treasure 
Memories  of  that  cry  of  pleasure  ; 
Hers  to  hoard,  a  lifetime  after, 
Echoes  of  that  infant-laughter. 

Yes ;  a  mother's  large  affection 

Hears  with  a  mysterious  sense : 
Breathings  that  evade  detection, 
Whisper  faint,  and  fine  inflexion, 

Thrill  in  her  with  power  intense. 
Childhood's  honied  tones  untaught 
Hiveth  she,  in  loving  thought ; 
Tones  that  never  thence  depart. 
For  tfhe  listens — with  her  heart ! 


12 


178 
A  HYMN  TO  THE  REDEEMER. 

BY   THE   ETTRICK   SHEPHERD. 

O  THOU  adored  in  heaven  and  earth, 
A  being  divine  of  human  birth  ; 
Son  of  the  virgin,  hear  us,  hear  us ; 
Son  of  the  living  God,  be  near  us ; 
Thou  who  art  man  in  form  and  feature, 
Yet  God  of  glory,  and  God  of  nature; 
Thou  who  led'st  the  star  of  the  east, 
Yet  hapless  lay  at  a  virgin's  breast, 
Slept  in  the  manger,  and  cried  on  the 

knee. 
Yet  rulest  o'er  time  and  eternity; 
Whose   kind  mediations    never  shall 

cease, 
Thou  mighty  God,  thou    Prince    of 

peace, 
Pity  thy  creatures  here   kneehng  in 

dust. 
Pity  the  beings  in  thee  that  trust. 

Thou,   who   fedst   the    hungry    with 

bread, 
/^nd  raised  from  the  grave  the  moul- 

deiii^  dead, 


HYMN  TO  THE  REDEEMER.        179 

Who  walked  on  the  waves  of  the  rolling 

main, 
Who  cried  to  thy  Father,  and  cried  in 

vain ; 
Yet,  wept  for  the  woes  and  the  sins  of 

man. 
And  prayed  for  him  when  thy  life-blood 

ran  ; 
With  thy  last  breath  thou  cried'st  for- 
give. 
When  dying  by  man  that  man  might 

live ; 
O'er  death  and  the  grave   thou   hast 

victory  won. 
And  now  art  throned  by  the  stars  and 

the  sun, 
For  thy  name's  glory,  hear  us,  hear  us 
Son  of  the  living  God,  be  near  us. 

Oh,   leave  the   abodes  of  glory    and 

bliss, 
The  realms  of  heavenly  happiness  ; 
Come  swifter  than  tlie  meteor  of  even, 
On  the  lightning's  wing,  in  the  chariot 

of  heaven  ; 
By  the  gates  of  light  and  the  glowing 

sphere. 
Oh,   come    on  thy  errand  of  mercy 

here. 


180         IIVMN  TO  THE  RKDKKMER. 

But,  Jj>T(]  of  glory,  wp.  know  not  thee, 
Wo  know  not  what  wf;  say  ; 

Wfi  f;annot  from  tfiy  [>reMftnce  bo, 
Not  from  thine  eye  away : 

For,  though  on  the  right  hand  of  our 

God, 
Thou  art  here  in  this  lonely  d  rear  ahode, 
Bf:yond  the  rnrK^n  and  the  Ktarry  way, 
Tlioij  holdfrit  thy  Almighty  sway, 
Where  hpirila  in   ihxxh  of   light  are 

Hwimniing, 
And  angels  round  the  throne  are  hymn- 

JDg. 
Wliere  waters  of  life  are  ever  htream- 

And  erownH  of  glory  are  round  thee 

iKjarning  ; 
Yet  present  with  all  that  eall  on  thee 
In  this  world  of  woe  and  adversity. 

Tlien,0  thou  Son  of  the  virgin,  hear  u«, 
God  of  love  and  of  lifc,  be  near  us; 
Our  stains  wash  out,  our  sins  forgive, 
And  before  thrre  let  our  spirits  live  ; 
For  thydear  Oiith  \n:  our  lKMW)ms steeled: 
Oh,  be  our  help,  our  stay,  our  shield  ; 
Show  thy  dread  [lower  for  rnerey's  sake, 
For  the  Wiulsof  thy  children  are  at  stake. 


HYMN  TO  Tmt  REDEEMER.        181 

Oh,  save  us !  save  us !  blest  Redeemer, 

From  the  \\n\er  of  the  scorner  and 
blasphemer ; 

Oh,  eonie  as  the  floods  of  thy  foes  as- 
semble. 

That  all  may  see,  and  fear,  and  tremble ; 

l>o\v  down  thy  heavens,  and  rend  them 
asunder, 

Aiul  fouie  in  the  cloud,  in  tlte  flame,  or 
the  thiuider, 

That  lieaven  and  earth  may  see  and 
know 

How  much  they  to  a  ^'i^gin  owe. 


THE  SPIRITS'  LAND. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  SELWIN,"  &C. 

Oh,  beauteous  are  the  forms  that  stand 
Beyond  death's  dusky  wave, 

And  beckon  to  the  spirits'  land, 
Across  the  narrow  grave ! 

No  damp  is  on  the  freed  one's  brow, 

No  dimness  in  his  eye  ; 
The  dews  of  heaven  refresh  him  now. 

The  fount  of  light  is  nigh. 

The  parent  souls  that  o'er  our  bed 
Oft  poured  the  midnight  prayer, 

Now  wonder  where  their  cares  are 
fled, 
And  calmly  wait  us  there. 

The  dearer  still — the  close  entwined 
With  bands  of  roseate  hue  : 

We  thought  them  fair;  but  now  we 
find 
'Twas  but  their  shade  we  knew. 


THE  SPIRITS    LAND  183 

Tis  sweet,  when  o'er  the  earth  un- 
furled 

Spring's  verdant  banners  wave, 
To  think  how  fair  yon  upper  world, 

Which  knows  no  wintry  grave. 

'Tis  sweet,  when  tempests  earth  de- 
form, 

And  whirlwinds  sweep  the  sky, 
To  know  a  haven  from  the  storm 

When  worlds  themselves  mu  t  die ; 

To  know  that  they  in  safety  rest 
The  tranquil  barks  of  those 

Who,  soaring  on  life's  billowy  crest, 
Attained  to  heaven's  repose; 

To  know  that  brethren  fondly  wait 

Our  mansion  to  prepare — 
That  death  but  opes  that  mansion's 
gate. 

And,  lo !  our  souls  are  there ! 


184 
GOING  TO  SERVICE. 

BY  MISS  PARDOE. 

The  day  was  bright,  the  hour  was 

noon, 
'Twas  laughing,  lightsome,  leafy  June ; 
The   breath  of  flowers  was  on  the 

breeze. 
The  birds  were  singing  'mid  the  trees, 
The  sun  was  warm  on  every  glade, 
The  cattle  rested  in  the  shade, 
And  on  the  wind  there  swelled  along 
The  chorus  of  the  mowers'  song. 

At  such  a  season  of  delight, 
When  all  is  beautiful  and  bright ; 
When  summer  smiles  on  trees  and 

streams, 
How  worse  than  dull  the  city  seems  ! 
And,  oh,  for  one  who  long  had  dwelt 
'Mid  rural  scenes,  and  who  had  felt 
The  simple  joys  the  country  yields, 
How  hard  to  quit  her  native  fields .' 

Young  Mary  was  the  sweetest  flower 
That  ever  bloomed  in  rustic  bower ; 


GOING   TO   SERVICE.  185 

As    blithesome,    graceful,    glad,   and 

gay, 
As  the  wild  bird  upon  the  spray ; 
And  like  that  bird  when  sickening 
With  heavy  eye  and  drooping  wing, 
Within  some  network  close  and  small, 
So  looked  she  to  the  city's  thrall. 

Her  mother,  silent,  wept  apart. 
The  grief  was  heavy  at  her  heart ; 
ller  father  stood  with  downcast  air, 
And  whistled,  to  conceal  his  care; 
Her  little  brother  hushed  his  glee, 
And  gazed  around  him  stealthily  ; 
While  she,  though  sad  enough    the 

while. 
Controlled  her  tears    and    strove  to 

smile. 

The  longest,  last  embrace  was  o'er, 
Her  roof-tree  sheltered  her  no  more  ; 
Yet  still  she  paused  a  little  while 
When    she  had    passed    the   dearest 

stile, 
And  looked,  how  lingeringly !  to  see 
The  home  of  her  glad  infancy, 
Nestling  in  quietude  and  peace 
Amid  its  patriarchal  trees 


186  GOING   TO   SERVICE. 

Then  turned  she  Irom  that  cherished 

spot — 
How  sad  'twould  seem  when  she  was 

not! 
Her  little  brother  at  her  side, 
Divided  between  grief  and  pride  ; 
The  grief  which  grows  with  each  ca« 

ress, 
The  simple  pride  of  usefulness  ; 
While  she — ah!  see  what  she  appears — 
A  lovely  thing  of  smiles  and  tears  \ 

How   quickened    Mary's    step,    how 

rushed 
The  life-blood  to  her  cheek,  which 

blushed 
Like  a  hedge-rose  beneath  the  sun. 
As  forth  upon  her  path  came  one 
Who  had  not  seen,  who  had  not  heard. 
Her  parting  smile,  her  parting  word  ; 
From  whom — so  whispered  her  young 

heart — 
'Twould  be  her  keenest  pang  to  part. 

Who  cannot  shadow  out  the  scene  ? — 
The  memories  of  what  had  been. 
The  clasping  hands,  the  tearful  vows, 
AH  love's  fond  catalogue  of  woes  ? 


GOING   TO   SERVICE.  187 

Or  who  shall  marvel,  though  once'more 
They  stood  beside  her  father's  door, 
She  blushing  in  her  happy  pride, 
He  sworn  to  claim  her  as  his  bride  ? 

They  could  not  part !    And  now  they 

came 
To  tell  their  tale  to  sire  and  dame ; 
The  words  were  few  in  which  'twas 

told, 
For  love  had  made  the  suitor  bold  ; 
While  Mary  to  her  mother's  breast 
Flew,  like  the  wild-bird  to  its  nest, 
And  whispered,  with  a  blushing  brow. 
"  I  need  not  seek  a  service  now !" 


188 


THE  PROPHET-CHILD. 

Within  the  Temple  slept  the  child, 
The  after-prop  of  Israel's  fame, 

When  o'er  his  slumbers,  calm  and  mild, 
The  summons  of  Jehovah  came. 

The  call  was  heard,  the  child  awoke  ; 

With  beating  heart  and  bended  knee 
The  future  judge  and  prophet  spoke, — 

"  Speak,  Lord,  thy  servant  heareth 
thee !" 

Oh,  when  we  hear  Jehovah's  voice 
Breaking  the  slumber  of  the  soul, 

So  may  we  rise,  and  so  rejoice, 
So  bend  our  will  to  His  control ! 

His  summons  calls  us  even  now ; 

Oh,  may  each  instant  answer  be, 
"  Father,  to  thy  commands  I  bow, — 

Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth  thee !' 
S.  C.  H. 


189 


THE  WORDS  OF  TREES  AND 
FLOWERS. 

BY  JOHN  BANIM 

•*  And  thii  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees." — Shahspeare. 

"  Why  should  not  trees  be    always 

green, 
And  flowers  for  ever  blow  ?"* 
That  from  their  changings  may  be  seen 
The  change  of  all  below  ; 
And  day  by  day,  through  hours  and 

years, 
They  challenge  us  to  learn, — 
Sometimes  a  soothing  for  our  tears, 
Sometimes  a  lesson  stern. 

To  him  who  weeps,  of  hope  stripped 

bare, 
His  leaf  and  flow'ret  shorn, 
They  say,  "  You  are  but  as  uoe  are, 
Yet  therefore  do  not  mourn ; 

*  This  question  wa:i  proposed  to  the  writer  by  a  ladv* 


190  WORDS   OF 

Wild  winter  will  so  soon  be  past, 
And  we  re-blossoming ; 
Be  patient  thou,  of  blight  and  blast 
And  wait  another  spring." 

To  hitn  who  hath  loved,  and,  in  despite 
Of  the  false  one,  loveth  still. 
Although  her  change  doth   nip  him 

qinte. 
And  bare  him,  at  her  will, 
They  say,  "  By  trusting  balm-like  eyes 
And  sighs  thou  art  undone; 
As  we,  by  trusting  balmy  skies, 
And  airs,  and  faithless  sun." 

To  him,  who,  in  ambition's  bloom, 
Thinks  not,  by  sudden  frost, 
Or  arrowy  flash,  or  sultry  gloom, 
He  may  be  touched  and  lost. 
They  say,"  Of  nature's  gorgeous  things 
We  ought  to  have  most  pride  ; 
And  yet,  like  man's  imaginings, 
We're  bared,  or  we  have  died." 

To  flowery  beauty,  in  her  waste 
Of  pride  and  palmy  power, 
Who  thinks  that  time  may  never  feast 
(Sole  bridegroom  I)  in  her  bovver. 
They  say,  "  Like  you,  for  seasons  two 


TREES   AND   FLOWERS.  191 

We  laughed  at  dull  decay, 

Till  now  the  third,  our  leaves  have 

stirred, 
To  strew  them  every  way." 

To  those  who  sit  on  high,  so  \am 

Of  a  little  shining  sway, 

By  sword,  or  sceptre,  knightly  chain, 

Or  ermiiied  robe,  they  say, 

"  Not  one  of  you,  in  all  your  state, 

Like  one  of  us  was  clothed  ; 

And  yet  your  fate  shall  be  our  fate — 

Your  rottings  shunned  or  loathed." 

Unto  earth's  proud  they  say  aloud, 

"We  laugh  to  think  that  we 

For  mirth  or  mourning,  show  or  shroud, 

Your  servitors  should  be  ! 

For  beauty's  braid,  alive  or  dead, 

For  the  crowning  of  your  brave  ; 

For  cradle  head,  or  nuptial  bed. 

For  garden,  and  for  grave  I" 

To  all  mankind,  from  year  to  year, 

(Alas,  unheard  I)  they  say, 

"  Without  a  thought,  without  a  fear, 

Lo !  we  have  passed  away  ! 

So  pass  not  thou  I  so  live  not  thou ! — 

Many  our  lives  on  earth ! — 


192  TREES   AND   FLOWERS. 

Thju  hast  but  one — thou  liv'st  itoilf — 
Beivare  a  second  birth  ! 

"  Ah !  leaf-like  could'st  thou  be  re-born, 

Each  spring-time  in  the  sun, 

Again   to    laugh    through  May-day's 

morn — 
Again  a  race  to  run  ; 
Then,  scarce  with  thought,  and  scarce 

with  fear. 
Thou  might'st  grow  wintry  old  ; 
And  die    through  winter's  reign  so 

drear, 
Or  brave  his  barbs  of  cold. 

"  But,  ah !  since  here  thou  diest,  to  have 
Eternal  life  elsewhere. 
Live  not  like  us,  who  scorn  a  grave, 
Or  must  be  clothed,  when  bare  ! 
A  life  on  earth,  for  thee  too  dear, 
To  earthward-loved,  and  given 
Without  a  thought,  without  a  fear, 
Will  not  ensure  thee  heaven !" 


193 


COME  AND  GONE. 

BY   THE    AUTHOR  OF   "  CORN-LAW 
RHYMES." 

The  silent  moon-beams  on  the  drifted 
snow 
Shine  cold,  and  pale,  and  blue, 
While  through  the   cottage-door    the 

yule  log's  glow- 
Casts  on  the  iced  oak's  trunk,  and  grey 
rock's  brow, 
A  ruddy  hue. 

The  red  ray  and  the  blue,  distinct  and 
fair, 
Like  happy  groom  and  bride, 
With    azured    green,    and    emerald' 

orange  glare. 
Gilding  the  icicles  from  branches  bare, 
Lie  side  by  side. 

The  door  is  open,  and  the  fire  buma 
bright  ; 
And  Hannah,  at  the  door. 
Stands, — through  the  clear,  cold-moon- 
ed, and  starless  night, — 
V3 


194  COME   AND  GONE. 

Gazing  intently  towards  the  scarce-seon 
height, 
O'er  the  white  moor, 

Tis  Christmas-eve  !  and,  from  the  dis 
tant  town, 
Her  pale  apprenticed  son 
Will  to  his  heart-sick  mother  hasten 

down, 
And  snatch  his  hour  of  annual  trans- 
port— flown 
Ere  well  begun. 

The  Holy  Book  unread  upon  his  knee. 

Old  Alfred  watcheth  calm  ; 
Till  Edwin  come,  no  solemn  prayei 

prays  he ; 
Till  Edwin  come,  the  text  he  cannot 
see. 
Nor  chant  the  psalm. 

And  comes  he  not  ?    Yea ;  from  the 
wind-swept  hill 
The  cottage-firfi  he  sees; 
While  of  the  past  Remembrance  drinks 

her  fill. 
Crops  childhood's  flowers,  and  bids  the 
unfrozen  rill 
Shine  through  green  t^eos. 


COME   AND  GONE.  195 

In  thought,  he  hears  the  bee  hum  o'er 
the  moor  ; 
In  thought,  the  sheep-boy's  call  ; 
In  thought,  he  meets  his  mother  at  the 

door; 
In  thought,  he  hears  his  father,  old  and 
poor, 
"  Thank  God  for  all !" 

His  sister  he  beholds,  who  died  when 
he. 
In  London  bound,  wept  o'er 
Her  last  sad  letter ;  vain  her  prayer  to 

see 
Poor  Ed  win  yet  again !— he  ne'er  will  be 
Her  playmate  more. 

No  more  with  her  will  hear  the  bittern 
boom 
At  evening's  dewy  close  ; 
No  more  with  her  will  wander  where 

the  broom 
Contends  in  beauty  with  the  hawthorn 
bloom, 
And  budding  rose. 

Oh,  love  is  strength !  love,  with  divine 
control, 
Recalls  us  when  we  roam ! 


196  COME  AND  GONE 

In  living  light  love  bids  the  dimmed 

eye  roll, 
And  gives  a  dove's  wing  to  the  fainting 

soul, 
And  bears  it  home. 

Home! — That  sweet  word  hath  turned 
his  pale  lip  red, 
Relumed  his  tireless  eye ; 
Again  the  morning  o'er  his  cheek  is 

spread, 
The  early  rose  that  seemed  for  ever 
dead, 
Returns  to  die. 

Home  I  home !    Behold  the  cottage  of 
the  moor, 
That  hears  the  sheep-boy's  call ! 
And  Hannah  meets  him  at  the  open 

door 
With  faint,  fond  scream ;  and  Alfred, 
old  and  poor, 
"Thanks  God  for  all  I" 

His  lip  is  on  his  mother's ;  to  ner  breast 

She  clasps  him,  heart  to  heart ; 
His  hands  between  his  father's  hands 
are  pressed ; 


COME   AND  GONE.  197 

They    sob    with  joy,   caressing   and 
caressed  : 
How  soon  to  part ! 

Why  should  they  know  that  thou  so 
soon,  O  Death, 
Wilt  pluck  him,  like  a  weed  ? 
Why  fear  consumption  in  his  quick- 

dravvn  breath  ? 
Why  dread  the  hectic  flower,  which 
blossometh 
That  worms  may  feed  ? 

They  talk  of  other  days,  when,  like  the 
birds 
He  culled  the  wild  flowers'  bloom, 
And  roamed  the  moorland,  with  the 

houseless  herds ; 
They  talk  of  Jane's  sad  prayer,  and 
her  last  words ; 
"Is  Edwin  come?" 

He  wept.    But  still,  almost  till  morn- 
ing beamed. 
They  talked  of  Jane — then  slept : 
But,  though   he  slept,   his  eyes  half 
open,  gleamed  ; 


198  COME  AND  GONE. 

For  still  of  dying  Jane  her  brother 
dreamed, 
And  dreaming  wept. 

At  mid-day  he  arose,  in   tears,  and 
sought 
The  churchyard  where  she  lies; 
He  found  her  name  beneath  the  snow- 
wreath  wrought, 
Then  from  her  grave  a  knot  of  grass 
he  brought 
With  tears  and  sighs. 

The  hour  of  parting  came,  when  feel- 
ings deep 
In  the  heart's  depth  awnke  : 
To  his  sad    mother— pausing  oft'   to 

weep — 
He  gave  a  token,  which  he  bade  her 
keep 
For  Edwin's  sake. 

It  was  a  grassy  sprig,  and  auburn  tress, 

Together  twined  and  tied. 
He  left  them,  then,  for  ever!    Could 

thev  less 
Than  bless  and  love  that  type  of  ten- 
derness ? — 
Childless  they  died? 


COME   AND  GONE.  lif^ 

ijong    in    their   hearts   a   cherished 
thought  they  wore, 
And  till  their  latest  breath, 
Blessed  him,  and   kissed  his  last  gift 

o'er  and  o'er; 
But  they  beheld  iheir  Edwin's  face  no 
more 
In  life  or  death! 

For  where  the  upheav'd  sea  of  trouble 
foams, 
And  sorrow's  billows  rave, 
Men,  in    the    wilderness    of   myriad 

homes, 
Far  from  the  desert,  where  the  wild 
flock  roams. 
Dug  Edwin's  grave. 


200 


A  WINTER  SUNSET. 

BY  MISS  A.  D.  WOODBRIDGE. 

1  LOVE  a  winter's  sunset    Look,  e'en 

now! 
As  the  bright  bird  of  heaven  his  wing 

extends 
E'en  to  its  utmost  Krait.    'Tis  to  fold 
In  one  fond,  last  embrace,  the  earth, 

which  smiles 
And  catches  from  each  golden  plume, 

a  tinge 
Of  heavenly  beauty.  Look!  the  western 

sky 
Was  never  in  the  gorgeous  summer 

time 
More  bright  with  radiant  hues,  and 

never  slept 
More  sweetly  on  its  breast  that  raoun 

tain  range. 

Ay  !  'tis  glorious  all . 
And  yet  how  faint!  how  dark!  com 

pared  with  Him 
Who  thus  doth  condescend  to  shadow 

forth 
Of  Deity  the  tokens. 


201 


LINES. 

BY  MRS.   FAIRLIE. 

Thou  bidst  me  dry  my  tearful  eyes  ; 

But  liast  thou  ever  shed  those  tears, 
In  each  of  which  such  sorrow  lies 

As  might  compress  the  wo  of  years? 

Oh  I  hast  thou  felt  what  'tis  to  sigh 
And  weep  o'er  bliss  for  ever  fled  ? 

To  long,  and  yet  to  fear,  to  die. 

When  every  hope  is  crush'd  and 
dead? 

No!  hadst  thou  ever  felt  that  wo, 
That  aching  void,  that  agony 

Which  causes  these  wild  tears  to  flow, 
And  makes  me  heave  this  throbbing 
sigh, 

Thou  wouldst  not  bid  me  dry  the  tear. 

For  thou  wouldst  know  it  was  in 
vain ; 
Alas  !  alas!  as  vain  it  were, 

As  bid  me  cherish  hope  again ! 


202 


CREATION   AND  REDEMPTION 

BY   ARCHDEACON   SPENCER. 
"  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light." 

"  Let  there  be  light !" — were  the  words 
of  creation, 
That  broke  on  the  chaos  and  silence 
of  night ; 
The  creatures  of  mercy   invoked   to 
their  station, 
Suffused  into  being,  and  kindled  to 
light. 

"Let   there    be    light!"— The    Great 
Spirit  descended. 
And  flashed  on  the   waves  that  in 
darkness  had  slept. 
The  sun  in  his  glory  a  giant  ascended. 
The  dews  on  the  earth  their  mild 
radiance  wept. 

"  Let  there  be  light !" — And  the  fruits 
and  the  flowers, 
Responded  in    smiles  to  the  new 
lighted  sky, 


CREATION  AND  REDEMPTION.    203 

There  was  scent  in  the   gale,  there 
was  bloom  in  the  bovvers, 
Sweet  sound   for  the  ear,  and  soft 
hue  for  the  eye. 

"Let  there  be   light!" — And  the  mild 
eye  of  woman 
Beani'd  joy  on  the  man  who  this  pa- 
radise sway'd  ; 
There  was  joy — 'till  the  foe  of  all  hap- 
piness Fiuman, 
Crept  into  those  bowers — was  heard 
— and  obey'd. 

"Let    there     be    light!" — Were    the 
words  of  salvation. 
When  man  had  defeated  life's  ob- 
ject and  end  ; 
Had  waned  from  his  glorious  and  glad 
elevation, 
Abandoned  a  God,  and  conform  d  to 
a  fiend. 

"  Let    there    be    light !" — The    same 
Spirit  supernal, 
That  lighted  the  torch  when  crea- 
tion began, 


204  LORD  SURREY    AND 

Laid  aside  the  bright  beams  of  his  God- 
head eternal, 
And  wrought  as  a  servant,  and  wept 
as  a  man. 

■ '  Let  there  be  light !" — From  Gethse- 
mane  springing, 
From  Golgotha's  darkness,  from  Cal- 
vary's tomb, 
Toy,  joy  unto  mortals,  good  angels  are 
singing, 
The  Shiloh  has  triumph'd,  and  death 
is  o'ercorae. 


UORD  SURREY  AND  THE  FAIR 
GERALDINE. 


BY  EDWARD  FITZGERALD. 

"  In  the  reign  of  the  second  Grand-duke  of  Tus- 
cany of  Lorenza's  family,  (Cosmo  I.)  Florence,  it 
is  said,  beheld  a  novel  and  extraordinary  spectacle. 
A  young  traveller  from  a  court  and  a  couutry  which 
the  Italians  of  that  day  seemed  to  regard  much  as 
we  now  do  the  Esquimaux,  combining  the  learning 
of  the  scholar,  and  the  amiable  bearing  of  the 
courtier,  with  all  the  rash  bravery  of  youthful 
romance,  astonished  the  inhabitants  of  that  queenly 
city,  first  by  rivalling  her  polished  nobles  in  the 
»ylendour  of  his  taste,  and  the  gallantry  of  his  man- 


THE   FAIR  GERALDINE.  205 

ners,  and  next  by  boldly  proclaiming  that  his  "  La- 
dye  love"  was  superior  to  all  that  Italy  could 
vaunt  of  beauty  ;  that  she  was  '  Oltre  le  belle  bella,^ 
fair  beyond  the  fairest ;  and  maintaining  his  boast 
in  a  solemn  tourney,  held  in  her  honour,  to  the 
overthrow  of  all  his  opponents.  This  was  our 
English  Surrey,  one  of  the  earliest  and  most  elegant 
of  our  amatory  poets,  and  the  lover  of  the  Fair  Ge- 
raldine.  According  to  the  old  tradition  repeated 
by  all  Surrey's  biographers,  he  visited  on  his  travels 
the  famous  necromancer  Cornelius  Agrippa,  who,  in 
a  magic  mirror,  revealed  to  him  the  fair  figure  of  his 
Geraldine,  lying  dishevelled  on  a  couch,  and  by  the 
light  of  a  taper,  reading  one  of  his  tenderest  son- 
nets."—£(n)e*  of  the  Poets, 

'TwAS  thus  in  the  good  days  of  old, 

When  hearts  burn'd  with  chivalry's 
blaze. 
Our  own  gallant  Surrey  beheld 

Young  Geraldine  weep  o'er  his  lays  : 
'Twas  thus,  by  the  dark  wizard's  spell, 

He  savv  her  reposing  at  eve. 
The  song  he  had  taught  her  so  well, 

Still  making  her  young  hosom  heave ; 
Still  waking  as  tender  a  sigh, 

As   though   her    loved    poet    were 
near. 
Still  causing  as  tearful  an  eye, 

As  though  Surrey  could  kiss  off  each 
tear ' 


306  LORD  SURREY  AND 

Oh  !  would  that  our  sages  had  power 

To  call  up  such  visions  of  bliss, — 
To  show  us,  in  hall  or  in  bower, 

Our  ladies,  through  mirrors  like  this, 
If,  instead  of  their  new  figure  Looms 

For  totting-up  sixes  and  sevens, 
For   our  Warburtons,   Althorpes,  and 
Humes, 

They  make  a  few  portable  heavens 
Like  these,  for  poor  youths,  who,  with 
me. 

Love    to  gaze  on   their  mistress's 
brow, — 
What  a  fool  Mr.  Babbage  would  be 

To  such  glass  manufacturers  now  ? 

Though  could  we  again  hope  to  raise 
From  his  grave  the  famed  wizard  to 
life. 
For  a  few  of  the  bards  of  our  days 

Just  to  peep  at  a  love — or  a  wife  ; 
Instead  of  beholding  her  lie 
In  this  love  stricken  iwse,  on  her 
bed. 
Warm  tears  streaming  down  from  her 
eye. 
And  the  chaste  silver  moon  o'er  her 
head. 


THE   FAIR  GERALDINE.  207 

Bobbing  over  a  sonnet  or  lay, — 
Ten  to  one  but  the  maid  met  his 
sight 
Spinning  round  in  a  teetotum  way, 
With  some  light-footed  waltzer  by 
night ! 

And  oh  !  by  the  stars,  it  were  fun ! 

If  a  fevv  little  girls  that  one  knows, 
Who  each  looks  demure  as  a  nun, 

Could  be  seen  through  this  glass  by 
her  beaux: 
Alas !  how  the  lovers  would  rave, 

Alas !     how     the    maidens    would 
swoon — 
And  how  many  a  Romeo's  grave, 

Chalk  Farm !    wouldst  thou  see  by 
thy  moon ! 
How  seldom  would  bachelors  wive. 

How  plenty  old  maids  would  appear 
Could  dear  old  Agrippa  contrive 

To  pass  a  few  weeks  with  us  here  ! 


208 


ST.  MAWGAN  CHURCH  AND 

LANHERN  NUNNERY", 

CORNWALL. 

BY   L.  E.  L. 

The  old  mansion  of  Lanhern  belonged  to  the 
Lords  Arundell  of  Wardour.  It  was  given  in  1794, 
by  Henry  eighth  Lord  Arundell,  as  an  asylum  for  a 
convent  of  English  Theresian  nuns,  who  had  mi- 
grated from  Antwerp  in  consequence  of  the  invasion 
of  the  French.  The  sisterhood,  or  rather  their  guc- 
cessors,  still  continue  secluded  in  the  old  and 
lonely  house  now  called  the  Lanhern  nunnery. 

It  stands  amid  the  sheltering  boughs, 

A  place  of  peace,  a  place  of  rest, 
Where  the  veiled  virgin's  hourly  vows. 

By  prayer  and  penitence  are  blest. 
The  sunshine  rests  upon  the  walls, 

More  golden  than  the  common  day. 
And  there  a  stiller  shadow  falls, 

Than  rests  on  life's  tumultuous  way. 

Alas !  why  should  this  quiet  place 
Bring  fancies  of  unrest  to  me  ? 

Why  looks  forth  that  beloved  face, 
I  seem  in  every  place  to  see  ? 


ST.  MAWGAN  CHURCH  AND        209 

Ah,  what  may  not  those  walls  con- 
ceal ! 

The  sunshine  of  that  saintly  shrine, 
Might  from  its  inmost  depths  reveal 

Some  spirit  passionate  as  mine ; 

Some  one  condemned  in  youth  to  part 

From  all  that  made   her  youth  so 
dear, 
To  listen  to  her  beating  heart 

In  shame — in  solitude  and  fear ; 
To  know  no  hope  before  the  grave ; 

To  fear  there  is  no  hope  beyond  ; 
Yet  scarcely  dare  of  heaven  to  crave 

Forgiveness  for  a  faith  too  fond : 

To  feel  the  white  and  vestal  veil 

Grow  wet  and  warm  with  worldly 
tears ; 
To  pass  the  midnight  watching  pale. 

Yet  tremble  when  the  day  appears ; 
Prostrate  before  the  cross  to  kneel. 

With  eyes  that  may  not  look  above  • 
How  dare  the  dedicate  to  feel 

The  agony  of  earthly  love  ? 

Oh  I  misery,  for  the  young  heart  doom- 
ed 
To  waste  and  weep  its  youth  away, 
14 


110  LANHERN   NUNNERY. 

To  be  within  itself  entombed 
And  desperate  with  the  long  decay 

Yes,  misery  !  but  there  may  be 
A  yet  more  desperate  despair; 

There  is  a  love  whose  misery 

Mocks  all  those  cells  may  soothe  and 
share. 

There  the  pale  nun  at  least  <!an  keep 

One  treasured  and  unbroken  dream; 
The  love  for  which  she    wakes    to 
weep, 
Seems    ever  what    it   once    could 
seem. 
She    knows    not    time's    uncharmingr 
touch. 
Destroying  every  early  hue  ; 
The  false  !  she  dreameth  not  of  such  ; 
Her  love  is  still  the  deep,  the  true. 

Not  so  the  love  of  common  life, 

'Tis  coloured  by  the  common  air; 
Its  atmosphere  with  death  is  rife, 

A  moral  pestilence  is  there. 
Fevered — exacting — false  and  vain, 

Like  a  disease  it  lingers  on, 
Though  all  that  blest  its  first  sweet 
reign. 

Its  morning  dew  and  light,  are  gone. 


etty's  rover.  211 

Such  is  the  actual  life  of  love, 

Such  is  the  love  that  I  have  known; 
Unworthy  of  the  heaven  above, 

Dust  like  the  earth  where  it  has 
grown. 
Ah  !  better  far  alone  to  dwell, 

Dreaming  about  the  dearest  past  ; 
And  keeping,  in  the  silent  cell, 

Life's  best  illusions  to  the  last. 


ETTY'S  ROVER. 

BY   L.   E.   L. 

Thou  lovely  and  thou  happy  child, 

Ah,  how  I  envy  thee  ! 
I  should  be  glad  to  change  our  state, 

If  such  a  change  might  be. 

And  yet  it  is  a  lingering  joy 

To  watch  a  thing  so  fair. 
To  think  that  in  our  weary  life 

Such  pleasant  moments  are. 

A  little  monarch  thou  art  there. 

And  of  a  fairy  realm. 
Without  a  foe  to  overthrow, 

A  care  to  overwhelm. 


812  etty's  rover. 

Thy  world  is  in  thy  owti  glad  will, 

And  in  each  fresh  delight, 
And  in  thy  unused  heart,  which  makes 

Its  own,  its  golden  light. 

With  no  misgivings  in  thy  past, 

Thy  future  with  no  fear ; 
The  present  circles  thee  around, 

An  angel's  atmosphere. 

How  little  is  the  happiness 

That  will  content  a  child  ; 
A  favourite  dog,  a  sunny  fruit, 

A  blossom  growing  wild. 

A  word  will  fill  the  little  heart 
With  pleasure  and  with  pride  ; 

It  is  a  harsh,  a  cruel  thing. 
That  such  can  be  denied. 

And  yet  how  many  weary  hours 
Those  joyous  creatures  know  j 

How  much  of  sorrow  and  restraint 
They  to  their  elders  owe  ! 

How  much  they  suffer  f'om  our  faults 
How  much  from  our  mistakes ! 

How  often  too  mistaken  zeal 
An  infant's  misery  makes ! 


etty's  rover.  213 

We  overrule,  and  overteach 

We  curb  and  we  confine  ; 
And  put  the  heart  to  school  too  soon, 

To  learn  our  narrow  line. 

No  ;  only  taught  by  love  to  love. 
Seems  childhood's  natural  task; 

Affection,  gentleness,  and  hope, 
Are  all  its  brief  years  ask. 

Enjoy  thy  happiness,  sweet  child, 
With  careless  heart  and  eye  ; 

Enjoy  those  few  bright  hours  which 
now, 
E'en  now,  are  hurrying  by. 

And  let  the  gazer  on  thy  face 
Grow  glad  with  watching  thee, 

And  better,  kinder, — such,  at  least, 
Its  influence  on  me. 


214 

THE  ORPHAN  BALLAD 

SINGERS. 

Oh,  weary,  weary  are  our  feet, 

And  weary,  weary  is  our  way  ; 
Throufijh   many  a  long  and  crowded 
street. 

We've  wandered  mournfully  to-day, 
My  little  sister,  she  is  pale, 

She  is  too  tender  and  too  young 
To  bear  the  autumn's  sullen  gale, 

And  all  day  long  the  child  has  sung. 

She  was  our  mother's  favourite  child, 

Who  loved  her  for  her  eyes  of  blue; 
And  she  is  dehcate  and  mild, 

She  cannot  do  what  I  can  do. 
She  never  met  her  father's  eyes. 

Although  they  were    so    like   her 
own ; 
In  some  far  distant  sea  he  lies 

A  father  to  his  child  unknown. 

The  first  time  that  she  lisped  his  name 
A  little  playful  thing  was  she  ; 

How  proud  we  were, — yet  that  night 
came, 
The  tale  how  he  had  sunk  at  sea. 


ORPHAN   BALLAD   SINGERS.       215 

My  mother  never  raised  her  head  ; 

How  strange,  how  white,  how  cold 
she  grew ! 
It  was  a  broken  heart,  they  said — 

I  wish  our  hearts  were  broken  too. 

We  have  no  home,  we  have  no  friends  ; 
They  said  our  home  no  more  was 
ours ; 
Our  cottage  where  the  ash-tree  benda, 
The   garden    we    had    filled    with 
flowers  ; 
The     sounding     shells     our     father 
brought. 
That  we  might  hear  the  sea  at  nome ; 
Our  bees,  that  in  the  summer  wrought 
The  winter's  golden  honey-comb. 

We   wandered   forth  mid   wind    and 
rain, 
No  sh-^lter  from  the  open  sky  ; 

I  only  wish  to  see  again 
My  mother's  grave,  and  rest,  and 
die. 

Alas  !  it  is  a  weary  thing, 
To  sing  our  ballads  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

The  songs  we  used  at  home  to  sing- 
Alas,  we  have  a  home  no  more ! 


216 


CALDRON  SNOUT,  WESTMORE 
LAND. 

A  PLACE  of  rugged  rocks,  adown  whose 
sides 
The  mountain   torrent  rushes,    on 
whose  crags 
The  raven  builds  her  nest,  and  tells 
her  young 
Of  former  funeral  feasts. 


Long  years  have  past  since  last  I  stood 

Alone  amid  this  mountain  scene ; 
Unlike  the  future  which  I  dreamed, 

How  like  my  future  it  has  been  ! 
A  cold  grey  sky  o'erhung  with  clouds. 

With    showers    in    every    passing 
shade ; 
How  like  the  moral  atmosphere. 

Whose    gloom    my    horoscope    has 
made! 

I  thought  if  yet  my  weary  feet 
Could  rove  my  native  hills  again ; 

A.  world  of  feehng  would  revive, 
Sweet  feelings  wasted,  worn  in  vain 


CALDRON   SNOUT.  217 

My  early  hopes,  my  early  joys, 

I  dreamed  those  valleys  would  re- 
store ; 

I  asked  for  childhood  to  return. 
For    childhood    which    returns    no 


Surely  the  scene  itself  is  changed! 

There  did  not  always  rest,  as  now, 
That  shadow  in  the  valley's  depth, 

That    gloom    upon    the    mountain 
brow. 
Wild  flowers  within  the  chasms  dwelt, 

Like  treasures  in  some  fairy  hold  ; 
And  morning  o'er  the  mountains  shed. 

Her  kindling  world  of  vapory  gold. 

Another  season  of  the  year 

Is  now  upon  the  earth  and  me  ; 
Another  spring  will  light  these  hills, 

No  other  spring  mine  own  may  be ; 
r  must  retune  my  unstrung  heart, 

i  must  awake  the  sleeping  tomb, 
I  must  recall  the  loved  and  lost, 

Ere  spring  again  for  me  could  bloom 


218 


MARDALE  HEAD.* 

Why  should  I  seek  those  scenes  a^in,  the  paft 
Is  on  yon  valley  like  a  shroud  ? 

Weep  for  the  love  that  fate  forbids, 

Yet  love's  unhoping  on, 
Though    every    light    that   once    il 
lumined 

Its  early  path  be  gone. 

Weep  for  the  love  that  must  resign 
The  heart's  enchanted  dream  ; 

And  float,  like  some  neglected  bark, 
Adown  life's  lonely  stream. 

Weep  for  the  love  these  scenes  recal.. 

Like  some  enduring  spell  ; 
It  rests  within  the  soul  that  loves 

Too  vainly  and  too  vvell. 


*  Among  the  mountains  which  form  tlie  soutnern 
boundary  of  Housewater  is  Mardalehead,  a  wild  and 
solitary  region,  wherein  nature,  working  with  a 
master  hand,  seems  to  have  produced  the  very  beau 
ideal  of  romantic  grandeur  and  sublimity. 


IVY  BRIDGE.  219 

Weep  for   the    breaking   heart   con- 
demned 

To  see  its  youth  pass  by  ; 
Whose  lot  has  been,  in  this  cold  world, 

To  dream,  despair,  and  die. 


IVY  BRIDGE,  DEVONSHIRE. 

BY   L.   E.   L. 

Oh,  recall  not  the  past,  though  this 
valley  be  filled 
With  all  we  remember,  and  all  we 
regret  ; 
The  flowers  of  its  summer  have  long 
been  distilled, 
The  essence   has  perished  :  ah !  let 
us  forget. 
What  avails  it  to  mourn  over  hours 
that  are  gone, 
O'er  illusion?  by  youth,  and  by  fan- 
tasy nurst 
Alas!  of  the  few  that  are  lingering, 
none 
Wear  the  light  or  the  hues  that  en. 
circled  the  first. 


220  IVY   BRIDGE. 

Alas  for  the  spring  time !  alas  for  our 
youth ! 
The  grave  has    no  slumber  more 
cold  than  the  heart, 
When,  languid  and  darkened,  it  sinks 
into  truth. 
And  sees  the  sweet  colours  of  morn- 
ing depart. 
Life  still  has  its  falsehoods  to  lure  and 
to  leave, 
But  they  cannot  delude    like  the 
earlier  light  ; 
We  know  that  the  twilight  encircles 
the  eve, 
And  sunset  is  only  the  rainbow  of 
night. 


221 

THE  ENGLISH  BOY 

BY  MRS.   HEMANS. 

"  Go  call  thy  sons  ;  instruct  them  what  a  debt 
They  owe  their  ancestors  ;  and  make  them  swear 
To  pay  it,  ty  transmitting  down  entire 
Those  sacred   rights  to  which  themselves  were 
born." 

Menaide. 

Look    from    the    ancient   mountains 
down, 
My  noble  English  boy  ! 
Thy    country's     fields    around     thee 
gleam, 
In  sunlight  and  in  joy. 

Ages  have  roll'd  since  foeman's  march 
Pass'd  o'er  I'hat  old  firm  sod  ; 

For  well  the  land  hath  fealty  held 
To  freedom  and  to  God  ! 

Gaze  proudly  on,  my  English  boy ! 

And  let  thy  kindling  mind 
Drink  in  the  spirit  of  high  thought, 

From  everv  chainless  wind. 


222  THE   ENGLISH   BOY. 

There  in  the  shadow  of  old  Time 
The  halls  beneath  thee  lie, 

Which  pour'd  forth  to  the  fields  of  yore 
Our  England's  chivalry. 

How  bravely  and  how  solemnly 
They  stand  midst  yoke  and  yew  ! 

Whence      Cressy's     yeomen     haply 
framed 
The  bow,  in  battle  true. 

And  round  their  walls  the  good  swords 
hang, 
Whose  faith  knew  no  alloy ; 
And  shields  of  knighthood  pure  from 
stain 
Gaze  on,  my  English  boy ! 

Gaze  where  the  hamlet's  ivied  church 
Gleams  by  the  antique  elm; 

Or  where  the  minster  lifts  the  cross 
High  through  the  air's  blue  realm. 

Martyrs    have    shower'd    their    free 
heart's  blood. 
That  England's  prayer  might  rise, 
From  those  grey  fanes  of  thoughtful 
years, 
Unfetter'd  to  the  skies. 


THE   ENGLISH   BOY.  223 

Along    their    aisles,     beneath     their 
trees, 

This  earth's  most  glorious  dust, 
Once  fired  with  valour,  wisdom,  song, 

Is  laid  in  holy  trust. 

Gaze  on — gaze  farther  yet, 

My  gallant  English  hoy ! 
Yon    blue   seas    bears    thy  country's 
flag, 

The  billow's  pride  and  joy. 

Those  waves  in  many  a  fight  have 
closed 

Above  her  faithful  dead  ; 
That  red  cross  flag  victoriously 

Has  floated  o'er  their  bed. 

They    perish  d — this    green    turf    to 
keep 

By  hostile  tread  unstained  ; 
These  knightly  halls  inviolate, 

Those  churches  unprofaned. 

And  high  and  clear  their  memories' 
light 

Along  our  shore  is  set; 
^nd  many  an  answering  beacon  firw 

Shall  there  be  kindled  yet! 


224  Nathan's  kieve. 

Lift  up  thy  heart,  my  English  boy ! 

And  pray  like  them  to  stand  ; 
Should  God  so  summon  thee,  to  guard 

The  altars  of  the  land. 


NATHAN'S  KIEVE. 

The  name  of  a  beautiful  waterfall,  situated  in  • 
retired  valley  running  up  from  the  sea,  between 
Boscastle  and  Tintad^el,  on  the  northern  coast  of 
Cornwall.  The  spot  is  so  sequestered,  and  the  fall 
80  concealed  by  overhanging  rocks,  that  a  stranger, 
following  the  course  of  the  stream  up  the  glen,  and 
coming  upon  it  unexpectedly,  might,  "  %vith  small 
help  from  fancy,"  imagine  himself  the  first  dis- 
coverer of  a  scene  so  solitary. 

A  STREAM,  a  lovely  stream,  eternally 
Pouring  wild  music  down  the  rocky 
dell; 
A  breeze,  a  playful  breeze,  that  lingers 
nigh, 
As  loth  to  bid  its  ocean  home  fare- 
well ; 
Such  voices  breathed  for  aye  in  na- 
ture's ear. 
Like  spirit's  airy  whispers,  greet  us 
here. 


Nathan's  kievk.  225 

But  far  within  the  depths  of  yonder 

nook, 
Tangled  with  copse  and  matted  o'er 

with  fern, 
Lo!    the  glad  waters  of   the  sylvan 

brook 
Rush   down    the    cliff,   as   from    a 

naiad's  urn : 
Sure  'tis  some  vision  raised  by  wizard's 

call, 
The  silvery  crest  of  that  lone  water-fall. 

Here,  here  to  sit,  and  cherish  many  a 
dream 
Of  ours  that  people  memory's  storied 
cell ; 

The  ceaseless  dash  of  Nathan's  head- 
long stream 
The  only  voice  to  break  each  witch- 
ing spell, 

That  gathers  o'er  the  soul  in  such  a 
scene, 

Musings  of  what  may  be,  and  what 
has  been. 

Lovely,    most   lovely — human    tread 
profane 
May  scarce  amid  these    unknown 
shades  intrude, 
15 


226  NATHAN  S   KIEVE. 

And  nature  spreads  around  her  rude 

domain, 
A  veil  of  deep  and  holy  solitude  ; 
Wild  haunt  of  golden  visions,  such  as 

fling 
O'er  fancy's  realm   their  own  bright 

colouring. 

Yes — there    are    thousand    forms    of 

earth  and  sky 
Hovering  around,  that  oft  at  eventide, 
That  heavenly  hour,  when  all  is  poesy, 
Along  their  lov'd  untrodden  valley 

glide ; 
On    high    they    wave    their    joyous 

plumes,  and  weave 
The  mystic  dance  above  yon  foaming 

Kieve. 

Nor    unremembered    be    the    poet's 

theme. 
The  beauty  of  that  legendary  tale 
Of  those,  whose  lives  roli'd  onwards 

as  a  dream. 
Those  ancient  two,  the  sisters  of  the 

dale ; 
Driven  from  their  native  hearth  afar  to 

roam 
Within  those  mouldering  walls  they 

found  a  home. 


NATHAN'S  KIEVE.  227 

A  home,  but  not  of  peace,  the  vigil 
lone, 
The  prayer  of  agony,  the  fast  severe, 

For  deeds  of  former  years  would  fain 
atone — 
Mysterious   deeds  which  none  did 
ever  hear ; 

Time  passed — at  length   that  fearful 
penance  closed. 

The   awful    sisters   in  the  grave  re- 
posed.* 

*  Immediately  above  the  fall  are  the  remains  of  a 
small  hut,  which,  as  the  legend  runs,  was  tenanted 
some  centuries  since  by  two  females,  who  came 
none  could  tell  from  whence,  and  spent  the  remain- 
der of  their  lives  in  this  lonely  spot.  There  was  a 
mysterious  dignity  about  them  ;  their  very  names 
were  unknown  ;  and  their  story  is  still  related  by  the 
peasants  of  the  country  with  feelings  of  reverential 


THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT  OVER 
HER  SLEEPING  CHILD. 


BY  MRS.   HEMANS. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  my  little  boy, 
No  child  have  I  on  earth  but  thee  ; 

Last  night  thou  wert  a  father's  joy, 
But  now,  alas !  oh,  where  is  he  ? 

Methinks  I  see  his  manly  form 
Toss'd  by  each  rude  and  boisterous 
wave. 

Till,  underneath  the  raging  storm. 
He  found  the  ocean's  deepest  grave. 

And  there  unseen  to  mortal  eye, 
He  takes  his  rest — sweet  may  it  be ! 

Wliile  here  a  widow  I  must  sigh. 
And  gaze  with  joyless  heart  on  thee. 

But  there  is  One  in  heaven  above. 
The  widow's  husband  and  her  joy. 

Who,  with  his  everlasting  love. 
Shall  be  thy  father,  O  ray  boy ! 


229 
LINES  TO  AN  OLD  OAK  TREE. 

BY   JOHN   JONES,   ESQ. 

How  oft  in  childhood's  happy  hour 

I've  rested  in  thy  shade, 
More  blest  than  in  the  brightest  bow'r 

That  fancy  ever  made. 

How  oft  I've  watch'd  the  redd'ning 
sun 

Sink  burning  in  the  west. 
And  mark'd  the  birds  as,  one  by  one, 

They  sought  thy  boughs  for  rest 

I  knew  not  then  of  worldly  care. 

Or  knev^'  it  but  by  name  ; 
I  ask'd  not  with  the  great  to  share 

Their  riches  or  their  fame. 

But  happy  and  content  with  thee, 

IMy  faithful  dog,  to  roam, 
I  never  thought  my  joys  would  flee, 

Or  I  should  leave  my  home. 

But,  ah  !  how  chang'd  is  all  to  me, 
My  faithful  dog  is  dead  ; 


230  TO   AN   OLD   OAK   TREE. 

Companion  of  my  youth,  for  thee 
A  kindly  tear  I  shed. 

Thou  too  hast  felt,  my  old  oak  tree, 
Time's  fell  destroying  hand, 

Blighted,  withered,  scathed  like  me 
Thou  still  dost  proudly  stand. 

And  like  to  thee,  I  still  have  left 

A  leaf  or  two  yet  green  ; 
Too  soon  of  all  we'll  be  bereft, 

Pluck'd  by  a  hand  unseen. 

But  still  the  ivy  clings  to  thee, 
And  round  thy  rugged  breast, 

Entwines  itself  in  constancy. 
Despite  of  nature's  waste. 

While  I  alone  the  storm  must  brave. 

And  curl  the  lip  at  fate. 
And  sink  with  peasant  to  the  grave, 

The  cold  earth-worm  my  mate. 

My  birth-place    too,  my    childhood's 
home ! 

To  strangers  it  is  gone. 
And  careless  feet  now  reckless  roam 

Along  the  verdant  lawn. 


TO   AN   OLD   OAK   TREE.  231 

By  Stranger's  feet  its  halls  are  trod  ; 

They  reck  not  of  the  past, 
But  on  each  rev'rend  household  god 

Cold  looks  they  careless  cast. 

No  sweet  associations  rise 

For  them  at  mem'ry's  call; 
No  early  dear  domestic  ties, 

Those  scenes  can  e'er  recall- 
But  dully  floating  down  the  stream 

That  bears  us  all  away, 
They    seldom    think    of    childhood's 
dream 

When  life  is  in  decay. 

Perchance  there  are  among  them  too, 
Some,  thoughtless,  young,  and  gay. 

As  I  was,  twenty  years  ago. 
When  there  I  us'd  to  play. 

Oh  I  may  they  never  know  the  care 

With  which  I  am  opprest; 
But  brightly  may  their  lives  still  wear 

Until  they  sink  to  rest. 


THE  DYING. 

BY  MARY  EMILY  JACKSON. 

Oh,  mother,  make  my  bed  for  me, 

I'll  ask  it  not  again  ; 
Why  are  thy  eyes  so  dim  with  tears  ? 

I  would  not  give  thee  pain 

Father,  dear  father,  ere  I  die, 
Draw  near  my  couch  of  death. 

And  seal  thy  blessing,  ere  I  yield 
My  last  expiring  breath. 

Sister,  stretch  out  thy  trembling  hand, 

I  feel  I'm  dying  now  ; 
Wipe  off   those  tear-drops  from  thy 
eyes, 

And  smooth  my  burning  brow. 

Brother,  breathe  out  thy  last  farewell. 

And  give  thy  parting  kiss, 
Ere  my  freed  spirit  takes  its  flight 

To  yon  bright  world  of  bliss. 

Friends  of  my  gay  and  joyous  hours, 
I've  loved  you  deep  and  long. 


ALONE   IN  CROWDS,  ETC.  233 

Breathe  out  for  me  one  parting  prayer, 
And  sing  one  parting  song. 

Farewell !  but  when  I'm  laid  to  rest, 

Breathe  not  for  me  a  sigh  ; 
Death  comes !  it  was  a  grief  to  live, 

An  endless  bliss  to  die. 


ALONE  IN  CROWDS  TO 
WANDER  ON. 

BY   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Alone  in  crowds  to  wander  on, 
And  feel  that  all  the  charm  is  gone, 
Which  voices  dear  and  eyes  beloved 
Shed,  round    us    once    where'er   we 

roved  ; 
This,  this  the  doom  must  be 
Of  all  who've  loved,  and  lived  to  see 
The   few   bright   things   they  thought 

would  stay 
For  ever  near  them  die  away. 

Though  fairer  forms  around  us  throng 
Their  smiles  to  others  all  belong 


234         ALONE   IN   CROWDS,  ETC. 

And   what  that  light  which    dwells 

alone 
Round   those  the  fond  heart  calls  its 

own. 
Where,  where  the  sunny  brow ! 
The  long   known  voice — where  are 

they  now ! 
Thus  ask  I  still,  nor  ask  in  vain, — 
The  silence  answers  all  too  plain. 

Oh,  what  is  Fancy's  magic  worth, 
If  all  her  art  cannot  call  forth 
One  bliss  like  those  we  felt  of  old, 
From  lips  now  mute   and  eyes  now 

cold! 
No,  no — her  spell  is  vain, — 
As  soon  could  she  bring  back  again 
Those  eyes   themselves  from  out  the 

grave. 
As  wake  again  one  bliss  they  gave. 


235 
DIRGE  AT  SEA. 

BY   MRS.    HEMANS. 


Sleep ! — we  give  thee  to  the  wave, 
Red  with  life-blood  from  the  brave; 
Thou  shall  find  a  noble  grave, 
Fare  thee  well ! 

Sleep !  the  billowy  field  is  won, 
Proudly  may  the  funeral  gun, 
Midst  the  hush,  at  set  of  sun, 
Boom  thy  knell ! 

Lonely,  lonely  is  thy  bed, 
Never  there  may  flower  be  shed, 
Marble  reared, — or  brother's  head 
Bowed  to  weep. 

Yet  thy  record  on  the  sea. 
Borne  through  battle  high  and  free, 
Long  the  red  cross  flag  shall  be. 
Sleep !  O  sleep ! 


A  THOUGHT  AT  SUNSET. 

BY  MRS.   HEMANS. 

Still  that  last  look  is  solemn — though 

thy  rays, 
O  sun  I    to-morrow  will  give  back, 

we  know, 
The   joy   to    nature's  heart.      Yet 

through  the  glow 
Of  clouds  that  mantle  thy  decline,  our 

gaze 
Tracks   thee  with  love  half  fearful ; 

and  in  days 
When  earth  too  much  adored  thee, 

what  a  swell 
Of  mournful  passion,  deepening  mighty 

lays, 
Told  how  the  dying  bade  thy  light 

farewell ; 
O  sun  of  Greece !   O  glorious  festal 

sun! 
Lost,  lost !  for  them  thy  golden  hours 

were  done. 


WILLIAM  THE    CONaUEROR.      237 

And    darkness    lay    before     them. 
Happier  far 
Are  we,  not  thus  to  thy  bright  wheels 

enchained, 
Not  thus  for  thy  last  parting  unsus- 
tained, 
Heirs  of  a  purer  day,  with  its  un- 
setting  star. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  WILLIAM  THE 
CONQUEROR. 

BY   MRS.   HEMANS. 

Lowly  upon  his  bier 

The  royal  conqueror  lay  ; 
Baron  and  chief  stood  near, 

Silent  in  war-array. 

Down  the  long  minster's  aisle 
Crowds,  mutely  gazing,  stream'd. 

Altar  and  tomb  the  while 
Through  mists  of  incense  gleam'd. 

And  by  the  torch's  blaze 
The  stately  priest  had  said 


23«  THE   BURIAL   OF 

High  words  of  power  and  praise 
To  the  glory  of  the  dead. 

They  lowered  him,  with  the  sound 

Of  requiems,  to  repose  ; 
When  from  the  throngs  around 

A  solemn  voice  arose : — 


"  Father !  forbear !"  it  cried  ; 

"  In  the  holiest  Name,  forbear ! 
He  hath  conquered  regions  wide, 

But  he  shall  not  slumber  there  ! 

"  By  the  violated  hearth 

Which  made  way  for  yon    proud 
shrine : 
By  the  harvests  which  this  earth 

Hath  borne  for  me  and  mine  : 

"  By  the  house  e'en  here  o'erthrown, 
On  my  brethren's  native  spot ; 

Hence !  with  his  dark  renown 
Cumber  our  birth-place  not ! 

"  Will  my  sire's  u.nransom'd  field, 
O'er  which  your  censers  wave, 

To  the  buried  spoiler  yield 
Soft  slumbers  in  the  grave  ? 


WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR.      239 

"The  tree  before  him  fell, 

Which  we  cherished  many  a  year ; 
But  Its  deep  root  yet  shall  swell, 

And  heave  against  his  bier. 

"  The  land  that  I  have  tilled 
Hath  yet  its  brooding  breast 

With  my  home's  white  ashes  filled, 
And  it  shall  not  give  him  rest ! 

"  Each  pillar's  massy  bed 

Hath  been  wet  by  weeping  eyes — 
Away  I  bestow  your  dead 

Where  no  wrong  against  him  cries." 

— Shame  glowed  on  each  dark  face 
Of  those  proud  and  steel-girt  men, 

And  they  bought  with  gold  a  place 
For  their  leader's  dust  e'en  then. 

A  little  earth  for  him 
Whose  banner  flew  so  far ! 

And  a  peasant's  tale  could  dim 
The  name,  a  nation's  star ! 

One  deep  voice  thus  arose 

From  a  heart  which  wrongs  had 
riven, — 
Oh  !  who  shall  number  those 

That  were  but  heard  in  heaven? 


240 


THE  BLIND  FLOWER-GIRL'S 
SONG. 

BY  BULWER. 

Buy  my  flowers— O  buy,  I  pray 

The  blind  girl  comes  from  afar ; 
If  the  earth  be  as  fair  as  I  hear  them 
say, 

These  flowers  her  children  are! 
Do  they  her  beauty  keep ! 

They    are    fresh   from    her  lap,  I 
know; 
For  I  caught  them  fast  asleep 

In  her  arms  an  hour  ago, 
With  the  air  which  is  her  breath — 
Her  soft  and  delicate  breath — 

Over  them  murmuring  low ! 

On  their  lips  her  sweet  kiss  lingers 

yet, 
And  their  cheeks  with  tender  tears  are 

wet, 
For   she  weeps — that  gentle  mother 

weeps — 
(As  mom  and  night  her  watch  she 

keeps. 


BLIND  flower-girl's  SONG.    241 

With  a  yearning  heart  and  a  passion- 
ate care) 
To  see  the  young  thing  grow  so  fair ; 
She  weeps — for  love  she  weeps, 
And  the  dews  are   the  tears   she 
weeps. 
From  the  well  of  a  mother's  love ! 
Ye  have  a  world  of  light, 

Where  love  in  the  lov'd  rejoices; 
But  the  bhnd  girl's  home  is  the  house 
of  night, 
And  its  beings  are  empty  voices. 

As  one  in  the  realms  below, 
I  stand  by  the  streams  of  woe  ; 
I  hear  the  vain  shadows  glide, 
I  feel  their  soft  breath  at  my  side, 
And  I  thirst  the  lov'd  forms  to  see, 
And  I  stretch  my  fond  arms  around, 
And  I  catch  but  shapeless  sound. 
For  the  living  are  ghosts  to  me. 

Come  buy — come  buy  I — 
Hark !  how  the  sweet  things  sigh, 
(For  they  have  a  voice  hke  ours,) 
"  The  breath  of  the  blind  girl  closes 
The  leaves  of  the  saddening  roses — 
We  are  tender,  we  sons  of  light, 
We  shrink  from  this  child  of  night; 
16 


242  THE   CHANGED  ONE. 

From  the  grasp  of  the  blind  girl  free 

us  ; 
We  yearn  for  the  eyes  that  see  us — 
We  are  for  night  too  gay. 
In  your  eyes  we  behold  the  day" — 
O  buy — O  buy  the  flowers ! 


THE  CHANGED  ONE. 

BY   MRS.  HEMANS. 

Sister  !  since  I  met  thee  last, 
O'er  thy  brow  a  change  hath  past 
In  the  softness  of  thine  eyes 
Deep  and  still  a  shadow  hes  ; 
From  thy  voice  there  thrills  a  tone 
Never  to  thy  childhood  known  ; 
Through  thy  soul  a  storm  hath  mov'd— 
Gentle  sister,  thou  hast  lov'd  I 

Yes,  thy  varying  cheek  hath  caught 
Hues  too  bright  from  troubled  thought', 
tar  along  the  wandering  stream 
Thou  art  followed  by  a  dream  ; 
In  the  woods  and  valleys  lone 
Music  haunts  thee  not  thine  own ; 


THE  mother's  hope.         243 

Wherefore  fall  thy  tears  like  rain  ? 
Sister,  thou  hast  loved  in  vain  I 

Tell  me  not  the  tale,  my  flower ! 
On  my  bosom  pour  that  shower! 
Tell  me  not  of  kind  thoughts  wasted  ; 
Tell  me  not  of  young  hopes  blasted  ; 
Wring  not  forth  one  burning  word, 
Let  thy  heart  no  more  be  stirr'd  I 
Home  alone  can  give  thee  rest — 
Weep,  sweet  sister,  on  my  breast! 


THE  MOTHER'S  HOPE. 

She  was  my  idol.  Night  and  day  to 
scan 

The  fine  expansion  in  her  form,  and 
mark 

The  unfolding  mind,  like  vernal  rose- 
buds, start 

To  sudden  beauty,  was  my  chief  de- 
light. 

To  find  her  fairy  footsteps  following 
me — 

Her  hand  upon  my  garments — or  her 
lip 


244        THE  mother's  hope. 

Long   sealed    to    mine— and    in    the 

watch  of  night 
The   quiet   breath  of    innocence    to 

feel 
Soft  on  my  cheek — was  such  a  full 

content 
Of  happiness,  as   none  but   mothers 

know. 
Her  voice  was  like  some  tiny  harp  that 

yields 
To  the  siight-finger'd  breeze — and  as  it 

held 
Long  converse  with  her  doll,  or  kindly 

soothed 
Her  meaning  kitten,  or  with  patient 

care 
Conn'd  o'er  her  alphabet — but  most  of 

all. 
Its  tender  cadence  in   her    evening 

prayer, 
Thrill'd  on  the  ear  like  some  ethereal 

tone. 
Heard  in  sweet  dreams. — 

But  now  I  sit  alone, 
Musing  of  her — and  dew  with  mourn 

ful  tears 
The  little  robes  that  once,  with  wo 

man's  pride 


THE  MOTHERS   HOPE.  245 

I  wrought,  as  if  there  was  a  need  to 
deck 

What  God  had  made  so  beautiful.    I 
start, 

Half  fancying  from  her  empty  crib 
there  comes 

A  restless  sound — and  breathes  accus- 
tom'd  words — 

"  Hush,  hush,  Louisa,  dearest"    Then 
I  weep. 

As  though  it  were  a  sin  to  speak  to 
one 

Whose  home  is  with  the  angels — 

Gone  to  God ! 

And  yet  I  wish  1  had   not  seen  the 
pang 

That  wrung  her  features,  nor  the  ghast- 
ly white 

Settling  around  her  lips.    I  would  that 
heaven 

Had  taken  its  own,  like  some   trans- 
planted flower. 

Blooming  in  all  its  freshness. — 

Gone  to  God ! 

Be  still,  my  heart ! — what  could  a  mo- 
ther's prayer. 

In  all  its  wildest  ectasy  of  hope, 

Ask  for  its  darling  like  the  bliss  of 
heaven  ? 


346 
THE  DYING  SOLDIER.* 

BY  MISS   PARDOE. 

Raise  yet  again  my  sinking  head, 

And  tell  me  of  the  fight  ; 
I  know  my  heart's  best  blood  is  shed, 

And  quenched  my  manhood's  might. 
Yet,  comrade,  yet  I  fain  would  hear, 

Ere  cold  in  death  I  lie, 
The  shout  come  pealing  on  my  ear 

Of  Britain's  victory ! 

I  see,  I  see  a  host  draw  nigh  : 

They're  British  who  advance ! 
And  those  who  fly — in  panic  fly — 

They  are  the  troops  of  France  ! 
Oh  I  tell  me  that  I  do  not  rave — 

Whisper  those  words  again — 
And  I  shall  sink  into  the  grave 

Without  one  groan  of  pain. 

I  thank  thee  for  the  glorious  tale  : 
I  knew  it  must  be  so — 

•  ■Written   on    reading   the  death  of    Sir   John 
Moore  at  Corunna. 


THE   SISTER   OF   CHARITY.        2¥i 

or  when  did  British  soldiers  fail 

Before  a  foreign  foe  ? 
,  n  glory  I  lay  down  my  head, 

'Klid  shouts  of  victory  ! 
Noi,  not  in  vain  my  blood  was  shed— » 

Now,  comrade,  let  me  die ! 


THE  SISTER  OF  CHARITY.* 


BY   ALARIC   A.   WATTS. 

Art  thou  some  spirit  from  that  blisa- 
ful land 
Where  fever  never  bums,  nor  hearts 
are  riven  ? 
That   soothing   smile,  tho;ie     accents 
ever  bland, 
Say,  were   they  born  of  earth,  or 
caught  from  heaven  ? 

Art  thou  some  seraph-minister  of  grace 
Whose  glorious  mission  in  tlie  skies 
has  birth  ? 

•  Written  after  meeting  a  Sister  of  Cnarrfy  id  the 
Hotel  Dieu. 


248      THE   SISTER   OF   CHARITY. 

An  angel,  sure,  in  bearing,  form,  and 
face  : 
All  but  thy  tears— and  they  belong 
to  earth  I 

Oh,  ne'er  did  beauty  in  ner  loftiest  pride 
A  splendour  boast  that  may  compare 
with  thine; 
Thus  bending  low  yon  sufferer's  bed 
beside, 
Thy  graces  mortal,  but  thy  cares 
divine. 

A  woman,  filled  with  all  a  woman's 
fears. 
Yet  strong  to  wrestle  with  despair 
and  woe ; 
A  thing  of  softest  smiles  and  tenderest 
tears. 
That  once  would    tremble    did    a 
breeze  but  blow. 

Leaving,  perchance,   some    gay    and 
happy  home. 
Music's  rich  tones,  the  rose's  odo- 
rous breath. 
Throughout  the  crowded  lazar-house 
to  roam. 
And  pierce  the  haunts  of  pestilence 
and  death. 


THE   SISTER  OF   CHARITY.        249 

For  ever  flitting  with  a  noiseless  tread, 
As    loth   to    break    the    pain-worn 
slumberer's  rest; 
To  smooth  the  pillow,  raise  the  droop- 
i.ig  head, 
And  pour  thy  balsam  on  the  bleed- 
ing breast. 

Or,  'mid  each  calmer  interval  of  pain. 
The  Christian's  hope  and  promis'd 
boon  to  show ; 
And  when  all  human  anodynes  are 
vain. 
To  nerve   the  bosom  for  its  final 
throe. 

To  lead  the  thoughts  from  harrownig 
scenes  like  this. 
To  that  bless'd  shore  where  sin  and 
sorrow  cease, — 
To  imp  the  flagging  soul  for  realms  of 
bliss, 
And  bid  the  world-worn  wanderer 
part  in  peace. 

A  creature  vowed  to  serve  both  God 
and  man. 
No  narrow  aims  thy  cherished  carea 
control : 


250        THE  SISTER    OF  CHARITY. 

Thou  dost  all  faith,  love,  pity,  watch- 
ing can, 
To  heal  the  body  and  to  save  the  soul. 

No  matter  who,  so   he    thy  service 
need  ; 
No  matter  what  the  suppliant's  claim 
may  be; 
Thou  dost  not  ask  his  country  or  his 
creed ; 
To  know  he  suffers  is  enough  forthee. 

Not  even  from  guilt  dost  thou  thine 
aid  withhold. 
Whose  Master  bled  a  sinful  world 
to  save  : 
Fearless  in  faith,  in  conscious  virtue 
bold, 
'Tis    thine    the    sick    blasphemer's 
couch  to  brave : 

To  note  the    anguish    of  despairing 
crime, 
Lash  the  wild  scorpions  of  the  soul 
within  ; 
Those  writhings  fierce,  those  agonies 
sublime. 
That  seem   from    conscience    half 
their  force  to  win  : 


THE  SISTER   OF   CHARITY.        251 

Then  glide   before  that  dark  demo- 
niac's sight, 
The  cup  of  healing  in  thy  gentle 
hand, — 
A  woman  strengthened  with  an  angel's 
might, 
The  storm  of  pain  and  passion  to 
command. 

To  calm  the  throb bings  of  his  fevered 
brow ; 
Cool  his  parched  lips,  his  bursting 
wounds  to  bind  ; — 
Then  with  deep  faith  before  the  cross 
to  bow 
For  power  to  still  the  tumult  of  his 
mind. 

And  it  is  given  :  the  softliest  whisper- 
ed word 
Now  falls  like  oil  on  that  tempes- 
tuous sea ; 
llird  as  his  heart  may  seem,  there's 
still  a  chord 
Once  touched,  his  ravings  all  are 
stilled  by  thee. 

see  thee  stand,  and  mark  that  won- 
drous change 
With  more  than  mortal  triumph  in 
thine  eye ; 


252       THE  SISTER   OF   CHARITY. 

Then  blessed  and  blessing,  turn  with 
tears  to  range 
Where  other  claimants  on  thy  kind- 
ness lie. 

By  many  a  faint  and  feeble  murmur 
led, 
A    willing     slave  where'er    the 
wretched  call  ; 
I  see  thee  softly  flit  from  bed  to  bed. 
Each  wish  forestalling,  bearing  balm 
to  all. 

Performing  humblest  offices  of  love 
For  such  as  know  no  human  love 
beside, — 
Still  on  thy  healing    way  in   mercy 
move. 
Daughter   of  pity,    thus    for    ever 
glide ! 

Not  thine  the  hollow  zeal  that  loves  to 
climb 
When    spurious   faith    her    ensign 
rears  on  high  ; 
That  seeks  the  heathen  of  some  far  off 
clime, 
But  leaves  the  wretched  of  its  own 
to  die. 


THE  SISTER  OF  CHARITY.        253 

Mercy — "  twice  blessed,"  in  him  who 
gives  and  takes — 
Is  thine,  with  all  its  attributes  re- 
fined ; 
Thy  nobler  love  no  nice  distinction 
makes, 
But  heals  the  flesh,  and  then  informs 
the  mind. 

All  peace  to  thee,  and  thy  devoted 
band, 
Vowed  to  earth's  gloomy  "  family  of 
pain ;" 
Whose  worth  could  even  the  unwill- 
ing awe  command 
Of  blood-stain'd  men  who  owned  no 
other  chain ; 

Long  may  ye  live  the  cherished  badge 
to  wear 
Whose  snow-white  folds  might  dig- 
nify a  queen, 
To  fainting  souls  your  cup  of  life  to 
bear, 
And  be  the  angels  ye  have  ever 
been! 


254 


THE  BRIDAL. 


She  stood  beside  the  altar,  but  1  saw 

her  cheek  was  pale, 
When    the    summer   breezes    wafted 

back  her  snow-white  bridal  veil ; 
And   listlessly    she    gazed    upon    the 

bright  throng  gather'd  there, 
As  though  in  all  that  glitt'ring  scene 

her  heart  had  little  share. 

Her  youthful  form  was  such  an  one  as 

painters  love  to  trace, 
With  raven  hair,  and  deep  dark  eyes, 

and  steps  so  full  of  grace  ; 
A  flow'r  just  op'ning  into  bloom,  and 

yet  a  blight  was  there, 
And  on  her  gentle  brow  she  bore  the 

marks  of  woe  and  care. 

The  bridegroom's  mein  was  stern  and 
dark,  and  with  an  air  of  pride 

He  rais'd  the  trembling  hand  of  that 
young  victim  at  his  side  ; 


THE   BRIDAL.  255 

And  prouder  still  the  father  look'd,  as 

near  he  took  his  stand, 
And  hail'd  his  lovely  daughter  there — 

a  peeress  of  the  land  ! 

O  what  a  glance  she  gave  hhn  then ! 

it  was  so  full  of  woe, 
There  needed  not  the  power  of  words 

her  wretchedness  to  show  ; 
But  quickly,  with  a  quiv'ring  lip  and 

one  deep  mournful  sigh. 
She  turn'd  away  to  hide  the  tears  that 

gather'd  in  her  eye. 

Full  brightly  flash'd  the   costiy  gems 

amidst  her  glossy  hair, 
And     oriental     pearls     were     twin'd 

around  her  arms  so  fair; 
But  love  will  not  he  bought  and  sold — 

ye  may  bring  golden  chains, 
And  hearts  ye  fam  would   fetter  thus 

still  mock  at  all  your  pains. 

And  well  do  I  remember  now  a  frank 

and  gallant  youth. 
Who   pledg'd  unto  that  lovely  one  a 

vow  of  endless  truth  ; 
But  their  fond  dream  of  tenderness  full 

soon  has  pass'd  away. 
And  hopes  that  once  seeni'd  fresh  and 

bright  have  turn'd  unto  decay. 


256  THE    BRIDAL. 

Heav'n  help  thee,  noble  lady  I  for  full 

bitter  it  will  be 
When  he  thou  lovest  shall  return,  but 

not  return  for  thee  ; 
And  thou  must  deck  thy  face  in  smiles, 

and  strive  to  seem  at  peace, 
Albeit  the  pangs  that  rend  thine  heart 

will  never,  never  cease. 

O  thou  hast  leam'd  that  happiness  on 

earth  is  never  known, 
But  in  the  azure  courts  of  heav'n  it 

flourishes  alone ; 
And  ere  its  ever-verdant  leaves  can 

greet  the  weary  eye, 
We  must  toil  through  a  wilderness,  and 

then  lie  down  to  die  I 


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